









Class 

Book 















POEMS 


By EDWIN POOLE. 

n 


Welcome Knowledge! Welcome Progress! 
Welcome Hope and Truth and Love! 
Lifting us from earthly bondage 
To the glory-heights above! 


O 



O O 
O 


o 


C. . \n. n > > \ > > 

1895 . 










T$ 2 6.4-4 

Ta-U 


605363 

FEB 1 7 1941 


TO MY MOTHER, 

. . . Whose love and counsel have been 
. . . the chief source of all til}' comfort 
. . . and success, this volume is affection- 
. . . ately dedicated. 



CONTENTS 


Page 

A Birthday Visitor . .... 10S 

Across the Way from the School-house ... 7 

Arcostic ......... 66 

A Day at Hog Island ....... 71 

A Farewell Tribute to the Old Stove . . . 58 

A Floral Tribute . . . . . . . . 114 

After the Transition . . . . . . . 126 

After Twenty-one Years ...... 148 

A Mother’s Advice ....... 128 

An Allegory ........ 32 

Anniversary Poem . . . . . . . 115 

A Picture. 50 

A Tribute to the Forefathers ..... 95 

Autumn Thoughts . . . . . . . ill 

A Vision ......... 106 

Beautiful Snow ........ 97 

Be of Good Cheer ........ 32 

Birthday Thoughts . . . . . . . 135 

Centennial Poem ........ 22 

Conflicting Claims ....... 63 

Despair 125 

Consolation. 147 

Earth’s Appeal and Heaven’s Answer . . . 10 I 

Emancipated ......... 105 

Everett and Seymour ....... 35 

Experience 29 

Forgiven but not Forgotten ..... 69 

For Whom Shall We Vote? ..... 59 

Friendship’s Tribute ....... 134 

Grandpa Browne . . . . , jg 

Grief .130 

Itigersoll at Onset ....... 144 

In Memory of Mrs. E. L. Currier .... 104 

Intuition .. 









Invocation. 



PAGE 

55 

Leaves from my Mother’s Life . 



a 

Leaving the Dear Old School-room 



53 

Life’s Winter ..... 



132 

Lillian. 



14 

Lines for an Autograph Album 



18 

Lines to Mr. and Mrs. P. M. Leavitt 



118 

Lines to Mrs. L. S. Dewing 



133 

Little Hands have Rent the Veil 



93 

Longing . 



137 

Lost a Friend ..... 



49 

Maiden’s Reverie ..... 



10 

Mother-love ...... 



118 

My Prayer ...... 



146 

Neglected. 



67 

Obituary ...... 



36 to 49 

Obituary .... 



76 to 93 

One of the many Mansions 



70 

On Matrimony’s Sea 



123 

On the Transition of Wallace N. Porter 



142 

Our Dear Departed .... 



138 

Over and Over Again .... 



64 

Respectfully Declined .... 



27 

Retrospective ..... 



140 

Rosamond’s Story . 



20 

The Death of Rover .... 



69 

The End of the School Term . , 



9 

The Mother’s Dream .... 



56 

Then, Now, and Then ! ... 



139 

Thoughts for the Times 



0 

To Mrs. Edith R. Nickless 

• 

• 

110 

To Mrs. Phebe Dusenbury , 



75 

To My Risen Friend . . 



111 

To My Risen Mother .... 

• 


124 

To Two P'riends about to start on their Weddin 

g Tou 

r 68 

Two Wrongs never make a Right 

• 


103 

We Miss Our Boys .... 

• 


51 

Words of Welcome .... 

# 


112 














POEMS. 


BY EDWIN POOEE. 


ACROSS THE WAY FROM THE SCHOOL-HOUSE, 

MARCH, 1874. 

When the far away future, now shrouded in dark¬ 
ness, 

Has taken a place with the years of the past, 

My mind will revert to my youthful enjoyments, 
And sigh that those pleasures no longer could last. 

And then to one spot, as I sit retrospecting, 

My mind will at once inadvertently stray, 

; Tis a school-house, forever to memory sacred. 

And the little low cottage just over the way. 

In that little cottage were no vain pretensions 
Of wealth and such treasures as money could buy, 
But kind hospitality had its abode there, 

And visions of comfort alone met the eye. 

There are myriad things that are sweet to remem¬ 
ber 

When we glance from the present far back in the 
past, 




Kind words of approval and greetings most cordial? 
And smiles of encouragement too bright to last. 

In memory’s hall there will then hang a picture 
Of four happy children I ne’er could forget, 

For though time has severed our former connections 
The sweet recollection remains with me yet. 

Foremost in this group, both in age and in stature. 
Is the face and the form of a bright merry lad, 
The oldest and largest of all of my scholars ; 

He’d a kind disposition, and many friends had. 

There close to his side stands a girl of twelve sum¬ 
mers, 

Most characterized by her outspoken way, 

Her frank, genial manner and fine intuitions, 

Ever faithful in work, ever cheerful at play 

Now, differing widely in feature and manner, 

To our view is presented a fair girl of nine, 

Kind, truthful, affectionate, vastly excelling 

Her schoolmates and playmates in principles fine. 

And last, but not least, in this fair, sunny picture 
Is bright roguish Abbie, so mirthful and gay. 
Vivacious and talkative ; gloom and despondency 
In her cheerful presence would vanish away. 

****** 

So much for the future, and now I ask onlv 
That God bless theseparents andchildreneachday, 
And long as I live 1 shall ever remember 
That little low cottage just over the way. 


8 


THE END OF THE SCHOOL TERM. 


Kind friends and dear parents, to-day we have met, 
Our feelings commingled with joy and regret; 
Another school term is now nearing its close, 

And we lay by our books for a few weeks’ repose. 
For a term of twelve weeks we have faithfully 
striven 

To take the instruction our teacher has given. 

We own we are weary with hours of hard work, 

In preparing the lessons, good scholars ne’er shirk, 
And for this we are glad that our school term is o’er, 
And for a short season we’ll study no more. 

But with glad thoughts of joy comes a feeling of 
pain 

That when we’re assembled together again, 

And join in our pleasures and plays, heart and hand, 
Some one may be missing from out of our band. 

We now are all here in our usual health, 

But disease, cruel fiend, may approach us by stealth, 
And blight some fair flower, as he has done before. 
And bear it away to be with us no more. 

But we’ll strive to cast off every gloom-filling 
thought, 

And cheerfully go from this long cherished spot, 
But before we depart each and every one, 

We will thank our kind teacher for all he has done 
To make the term pleasant, our tasks to make light. 
And to make our dear school-room so cheerful and 
bright. 

We thank you kind friends that you’ve come here 
to-day 


To hear all we’ve had both to sing and to say. 

We believe that you feel an interest due 
In us, with less years and less wisdom than you. 
We hope that next term we shall see you again ; 

If we’ve done well to-day we will do better then. 
Hear our invitation ! Our lips and hearts speak ! 
Come early ! Come often ! Come every week ! 
And now, as the hour of closing draws nigh, 
Friends, teacher and scholars,we bid you goodbye 


MAIDEN’S REVERIE. 

What says the breeze as it sweeps along? 

To some it brings joy with its cooling breath ; 
To some it is fraught with the news of death, 
But it fills my heart with increasing faith 
In the words of my lover, brave and strong. 

What says the stream as it babbles by? 

Some are merry. Its voice is sweet to them ; 

To some it is chanting a requiem ; 

For me, it gives me sweet thoughts of him, 
Whom I love with love that will never die. 

What says the shriek of the coming train? 

They are merry and sad in its living freight, 
Bringing joys and griefs to the hearts that wait, 
But I see a form coming in at the gate 
That fills me with rapture and banishes pain. 


10 



LEAVES FROM MY MOTHER’S LIFE, 1826-1870. 


Misfortunes unto thee have ne’er come singly, 
Affliction still upon affliction waits, 

And Life has shed more shadows deep than sun¬ 
shine 

About thy pathway toward the heavenly gates. 

Thy life like some cold drear November morning, 
Was ushered in with clouds and chilly air. 

Thou never knew a father’s kindly blessing, 

And cold, indifferent was thy mother’s care. 

But ere thy youthful heart was seared by sorrow, 
Although of troubles thou hadst felt thy part, 

There came a young man, just, upright and honest 
Who took thee to his great and loving heart. 

A little boy in time then came to cheer thee, 
Another yet, and still another boy, 

And then at last there came a little daughter 
To crown thy pleasure and complete thy joy. 

Awhile she lived to fill thy life with gladness, 

To run about and prattle at thy knees. 

Two years of golden sunshine shed about thee, 

And then she fell a victim to disease. 

Ah ! who shall picture how this blow fell on thee, 
Scattering thy hopes, destroying all thy bliss? 

Of all the troubles Fate had brought upon thee, 
Notone indeed could be compared to this. 


11 


But still thou hadst one hope, one ray of comfort, 
But that, alas ! was destined to be killed, 

For when thy child came, it was not a daughter, 
And so thy lost one’s place could not be filled. 

But in the course of time there came another 
Fair as an angel from the realms above, 

A heavenly blessing to thee, toil-worn mother, 

A messenger of peace and joy and love. 

A little while lie lingered here to bless thee, 

To turn thy dreary night to gladsome day. 

And then death again came into thy presence, 

And snatched thy darling from thy arms away. 

Twas New Year’s Day—a cold, cold winter morn 

ing, 

The first of eighteen-hundred-fifty-seven, 

When angels came and took thy little Luther 
Unto his little sister up in heaven. 

Another came and ere two years had vanished 
Disease had touched him with its cruel breath; 
liegardless of all else thou fondly nursed him, 
And long he lingered at the gates of death. 

And what result from all thy toil and watching? 

Thy child was born an infant, frail and weak. 
Poor, patient sufferer ! Years passed. Still thy dar 
ling 

Could neither walk nor sit alone, nor speak. 


But finally a ray of light shone on thee, 

A little daughter came to bless thy lot, 

And then Death took poor, feeble, helpless Willie, 
And he was borne where pain and care are not. 

Thou couldst not mourn this little one departed 
As bitterly as if he had been well. 

Thou couldst but feel that he was far more happy 
In that bright land, where he had gone to dwell. 

Sickness and trouble came to wear and grieve thee, 
And little Sumner soon forsook his play, 

And cruel death laid his stern hand upon him, 

And in the graveyard soon his body lay. 

S' 

And then disease laid hold upon another, 

And epilepsy, cruel as the grave, 

Made but a living death of thy poor Wallace, 

From which no mortal hand has power to save. 

But still in all this sorrow and deep trouble 

Thou hadst one strong right arm to hold thee up, 

One who could dry thy tears of pain and anguish 
And help thee drain affliction’s bitter cup. 

But now that arm no longer can support thee, 

No longer now that voice can cheer thy heart, 

Nor soothe thy grief, sustain thy fainting spirit, 
Nor dry thy tears, nor strength and love impart. 

Did not thy cup of grief seem running over? 

Then Julian kindly came to thy relief, 

And tried to cheer his worn and weary mother, 
Allay thy troubles, and assuage thy grief. 


13 


But even he could not be spared unto thee, 

And now his body rests within the grave. 

Ah ! who can wonder in this bitter trial, 

Thy spirit sinks beneath affliction’s wave? 

Oh God ! Thy ways are strange and dark, mys¬ 
terious. 

Why is it one good soul must bear so much, 
While others, who are base, and vile, and wicked, 
Of grief and trouble scarcely feel the touch? 

Comfort this heart bowed down in deep affliction, 
And may her life in future years be blessed ! 

And may we all feel in this time of trouble 
That thou at last wilt give us peace and rest. 


LILLIAN. 

AN OlyD LADY’S STORY. 

They tell me Lillian Forrester is dead. 

I say u The Lord be praised for His great 
mercy.” 

It would have filled my heart with grief instead 

If this had come when she was Lillian Hersey. 

Ah ! well a little infant I recall her. 

With dimpled cheeks the angels might have 
kissed, 

And bright black eyes, bright as a new-coined 
dollar, 

And winning ways no heart could e’er resist. 


14 



And as she older grew, she grew more charming, 
And oft she came to spend the day with me; 

She loved to watch the men engaged in farming, 
For her folks had no farm to work, you see. 

I used to think my John was waiting for her, 

But John went out to war, and died you know, 
And how she comforted me in my sorrow, 

And strengthened me to bear the heavy blow. 

I loved her as I might have loved a daughter ; 

You see I never had one of my own, 

And when she older grew T and lovers sought her 
She came for my advice and mine alone. 

I know, within my heart, too long I tarried. 

She might have married well, if not for love. 

I could not bear to have my darling married ; 

No one seemed fit. to wed my gentle dove. 

At last she confidentially disclosed, 

That one who sought her hand had won her 
heart.; 

But here her worldly parents interposed, 

And so she came to me to take her part. 

They said ’twould be a wretched mesalliance— 

A poor man’s son towed a rich man’s child, 

And to have seen brave Lillian’s defiance 

You never would have dreamed her nature mild. 


I knew George Lyon was a man of honor. 

Upright, industrious, temperate and kind; 

True and sincere the love he lavished on her. 

I felt no better husband could she find. 

Not to encourage filial disobedience, 

I sought to move her parents, but in vain, 

For birth and fortune were the chief ingredients, 

A man must have their daughter’s hand to gain. 

What might have happened you cannot help guess¬ 
ing, 

To-day she would have been George Lyon’s wife, 
But when their plans were quietly progressing, 

A frightful accident destroyed his life. 

This sudden stroke her nature changed completely. 

The blow was too severe for her to bear, 

And when again she came alone to meet me 
Her features wore a look of fixed despair. 

And soon, too soon, her parents disregarding 
Her every wish, had chosen her a mate, 

Frank Forrester, who came from Carrigfaden, 

Had princely blood, and owned a vast estate. 

Strange though it seems, she showed no opposition, 
And in a few short months the two were wed ; 
But she could not enjoy her new condition, 

For all her joys were buried with the dead. 


16 


But, though in every way she tried to please 
him, 

Her life was sacrificed, as you may think. 

She saw his love for wickedness increasing, 

And great his thirst for alcoholic drink. 

’Twas nothing new this mode of life. Years pre¬ 
vious 

The record of his life was none too pure, 

And, though some past reports might have de¬ 
ceived us, 

The present made “assurance doubly sure.’’ 

And when at last his property was squandered, 

He took his wife and little feeble child, 

And from our village far away he wandered, 

And ceased his reckless living for a while. 

But with prosperity came dissipation, 

And from abuse his little daughter died, 

And now from cruel treatment and starvation, 

Poor Lillian lies her daughter’s grave beside. 

It seems a righteous judgment on her parents. 
They know ’twas by their work their child was 
killed ; 

I cannot look upon them with forbearance, 

My very soul with deep disgust is filled. 

Dear child ! The grass will soon grow green above 
her, 

Or rather o’er the form I loved so well. 

Her spirit pure has gone to join her lover, 

Forever in the sweetest bliss to dwell. 


17 


LINES FOR AN AUTOGRAPH ALBUM. 

When other scenes enchain thy thoughts, 
And fill thy mind with pleasure dear, 

Wilt thou not sometimes read these lines 
And think of him who traced them here? 
Oh, may thy future life on earth 
Be like this paper, pure and white. 

Then when that other life shall come 
Thy soul shall dwell in heavenly light. 


GRANDPA BROWNE. 

Grandpa Browne is growing old, 
Old and gray. 

On his brow is many a line 
Traced there by relentless Time, 
But his heart has ne’er grown cold 
On the way. 

O ! how great the changes, since 
He was young. 

Science, in its mighty power 
Makes reveal men ts every hour, 
Bound to conquer and convince 
Right or wrong. 


18 



But with learning’s ample good 
Comes a cloud. 

He whose heart and thoughts are ill 
Bends his learning to his will, 

Blights the peace with which he could 
Be endowed. 

But with all Time’s changes great, 
Grandpa Browne 
Still his noble heart retains, 

Purified by griefs and pains, 

Bears life’s cross, content to wait 
For the crown. 

Few have read the Holy Word 
Any more. 

Stories of Christ’s love divine 
None the less can please the mind, 

Though so often read, and heard 
O’er and o’er. 

And no less a Christian rare 
Sure is she, 

Who, through sorrow, pains and fears, 
Hand in hand for many years, 

Has walked with him, failing ne’er 
True to be. 

Aged pair, your mission here 
Soon must end. 

Others soon your place must fill, 
Heaven grant they may as well ! 

While your souls to mansions fair 
Shall ascend. 


id 


ROSAMOND’S STORY. 


So we have met again, Pierre and I, 

After a lapse of twenty years or more, 

And tears will start—I scarce can tell you why— 
When I recall those happy days of yore. 

I have a husband, whom I dearly love; 

My heart’s affections are enshrined in him. 

His love for me, like the bright stars above, 
Beams with a lustre that can ne’er grow dim. 

Naught can revive the love so long since perished. 

Twas but a girlish fancy, well I know, 

But I am grieved that he, whom once I cherished, 
For youthful folly should have suffered so. 

Ah? well do I recall when first I saw him ! 

And when he asked me to become his wife ! 

And in my love I would have perished for him. 
His word was law to me, his love my life. 

He was so handsome, with such winning manners 
Quite irresistible, or so I thought; 

And such a contrast too, with Alfred Tanner’s, 
Who long and vainly my affection sought. 

But soon there came an obstacle between us, 

A maid from La Belle France, Marie Lacroux, 
Lovely in face and form, a perfect Venus, 

The fairest woman that I ever knew. 


20 


Unprincipled and vain she came among us, 

To win men’s hearts and spurn them with disdain,. 
And soon she captivated my Adonis, 

And he forsook to follow in her train. 

My beauty paled before her regal splendor. 

Pierre was human and could not resist 
That handsome face, that beamed with love so 
tender, 

And I, deserted, pitied him for this. 

And so they left us, one bright summer morning, 
He still beguiled by her enchanting way. 

No subtle instinct seemed to give him warning; 
She held him spell-bound ’neath her potent 
sway. 

Then Edgar Hollis, in his quiet fashion, 

Honest and noble-hearted, came to woo; 

Not like Pierre, did he display his passion ; 

His was a deeper love and far more true. 

So we were wed. I never have regretted 
Pierre’s inconstancy or Marie’s guilt. 

But feel somewhat to both of them indebted, 

For the enduring bliss that I have felt. 

But yesterday Pierre stood before me, 

And told his tale in such a mournful strain, 

And memories of the days long past came o’er me, 
And seemed to bring them back to me again. 


21 


Marie proved false lie said. And then I told him 
I knew of some one else who proved untrue, 

But that was all. I really could not scold him, 
Nor bring that buried trouble up anew. 


For I had Edgar, loving and true-hearted, 
While he had none to love him, or to save. 
The brightness of his life had all departed, 
His only place of rest on earth the grave. 


So while I sit in silent retrospection, 

Blessed with a husband’s love and tender care, 

I pity him, whom once I thought perfection, 

And breathe a prayer to heaven for poor Pierre. 


CENTENNIAL POEM. 


Read at the Celebration at .So. Abington Grove, July 4th, 1876. 


In the work of reform, and the work is immense, 
The most difficult part is, how to commence ; 

And, in writing a poem, the same may hold true, 
Though words may be plenty, and ideas not few. 
It must be quite appropriate, lit for the times, 
Not merely true metre in commonplace rhymes. 



With Memory’s aid and her powers unsurpassed, 
We can glance but a short distance back in the 
past. 

But history gives us a more remote view, 

In some respects faulty, but more or less true; 

And with her wondrous glass we will now turn our 
eye 

On the scene in the State House that Fourth of 
July. 

From various quarters had motions been made 
That homage to King George no more should be 
paid, 

That the colonies were and of right ought to be 
Absolved from his power, independent and free ;• 
And so Thomas Jefferson ably prepared 
The paper, that this independence declared. 

On the Fourth of July, seventeen-seventy-six— 

A date in our memories indelibly fixed, 
Philadelphia’s streets were thronged, far and near, 
By multitudes waiting the glad news to hear; 

And aloft sat the bell-ringer, anxious to tell 
The glorious news, with the great massive bell. 

The band of true hearts that assembled within, 
Considered the question, again and again. 

They well knew the power they had to oppose, 
They well knew the number and strength of their 
foes, 

And what were far worse to repel and resist 
The traitorous foes who still dwelt in their midst. 


23 


But the longing for freedom was strong in each 
breast; 

By tyrannical power they would not be oppressed. 
After some few amendments, that all might agree, 
The bill was adopted—the states declared free. 
Thrown off all allegiance to George III, the King, 
And the boy at his post gives the signal to ring. 

That bell never gave a more musical peal! 

It inspired the people with courage and zeal. 

The good news was scattered broadcast through 
the land; 

Demonstrations of joy were on every hand. 

After years, as we know, of hard fighting were 
passed, 

Great Britain acknowledged their freedom at last. 

What wondrous events have transpired since then I 
What foes have been conquered, again and again ! 
The progress of science ! perfection of arts ! 

How mighty the record the century imparts ! 

So rapid the progress, it really does seem 
That ideas like ourselves travel niostlv by steam. 

But, what seems to me a most pitiful thing, 

We are growing subservient now to a king. 

We have borne his encroachments upon us too 
long. 

His power grows tyrannical, as it grows strong; 

Let us form then a new declaration for all, 

And throw off' allegiance to King Alcohol! 


24 


There are hearts just as true as in those days of 
yore, 

As loyal and brave as those gone before. 

There are yet Patrick Henrys, and brave Warrens 
still, 

As he who died nobly at old Bunker Hill. 

The strife is commencing—the warfare begun— 
And that peace will be blest when the victory is 
won. 

And this is a contest, where women can serve. 

They should be the generals. Courage and nerve 
Are attributes they have too long been denied, 

But they’ve not been wanting, whene’er they were 
tried. 

Remember Moll Pitcher ! Her valiant career 
Should stimulate you, this centennial year. 

If Joan of Arc could lead soldiers to battle, 
Unmoved ’mid the carnage and cannons’ loud 
rattle; 

If, when the wild storm lashed to fury the waves, 
Grace Darling could rescue those men from their 
graves, 

Surely some of that spirit remains with us still, 

And if woman determines to conquer she will. 

There are cases not few in this temperance cru¬ 
sade, 

Where women have conquered, who were not 
afraid ; 

Then let all unite, and shake off this vile king, 


And with joy in our hearts, give the signal to ring, 
And let the church bells in response to our call, 
Proclaim the glad news, “Independence to all.” 

One thing must not be overlooked, by the way— 
Our town is just sixteen months old, friends, to-day, 
It is thriving and forward for one of its age, 

And we wish for its record an undefiled page. 

Its evil proclivities now should be checked, 

And, in due course of time, we shall see the effect. 

And he,* who has striven to build up our town, 
And, by his activity won great renown, 

Who within his own dwelling at pleasure could 
stand, 

And view far and wide the fair works of his hand, 
Has passed from the earth to a fairer abode, 

Forever to dwell in the mansions of God. 

Oh ! Father of mercy and infinite power ! 

Look down on us kindly and bless us this hour ! 
Give us courage to serve Thee, and make our hearts 
strong 

To battle for right, and to overthrow wrong ! 

Bless our country, and bless Thou our village as 
well, 

For though but a fragment, we worship Thee still ! 


* Oliver G. Healy. 


RESPECTFULLY DECLINED. 


Those who have longed for literary fame, 

And sought by pen and ink to gain distinction, 
Whose manuscripts, so carefully prepared, 

Have, like their hopes,but met with swift extinc¬ 
tion, 

Know how these words will harrow up the mind, 
With grief and pain, “respectfully declined.” 

Quenched in a moment are the heart’s desires, 

And proud Ambition’s voice is quickly hushed. 
Despair within the spirit reigns supreme, 

And hopes of fame are now forever crushed. 

The words are neither harsh nor yet unkind— 

But ah ! they wound —respectfully declined. 


Once on a time Frank Howard wrote a tale, 

A tragic tale of horror and of woe ! 

It surely must electrify the world, 

And all would seek the author’s name to know. 
But soon, too soon, his heart was rent to find 
His manuscript respectfully declined. 

But Frank was quite a genius, in his way. 

Though vain, conceited, proud of his good looks, 
So next he sought the firm of Grasp and Gain, 
Offering his services to keep their books. 

Old Grasp replied in tones not soft nor kind, 

“ Your offer is respectfully declined.” 


Now Frank most deeply loved a fair young maid, 
With lovely eyes of amethystine hue, 

Sparkling like diamonds, and her teeth were 
pearls, 

With ruby lips and golden ringlets, too; 

Perhaps it was a fact to be repented, 

Emerald and topaz were not represented. 

But she was quite a jewel ne’ertheless, 

A jewel casket Frank was wont to call her, 

And she was heiress to a large estate, 

While he, truth telling, was not worth a dollar; 
And times were getting hard, and bills were press¬ 
ing, 

He thought it time his love to he confessing. 

So on a summer eve he told his love, 

In glowing words, although, as he expressed it, 
Words were inadequate to tell its depth, 

But from his looks he knew she must have 
guessed it. 

Alas ! how could the poor man be resigned 
To find himself respectfully declined? 

And so misfortune followed him through life, 

And on his gravestone you these lines may find : 
“I trust when I shall stand before my Lord 
I shall not be respectfully declined.” 

His struggle long for wealth, for love, for fame, 
Ended in blasted hopes. Who was to blame? 


28 


1 found him deep in trouble. “ Ah ! my friend, 
Look up ! Don’t give way to thy grief,” I said ; 
“These gloomy trials soon will have an end. 

Lift up thy head ! 

He raised his eyes so pitiful to mine, 

But did not speak one single answering word, 
And though I spoke again in accents kind, 

He never stirred. 

I thought I knew what pain and sorrow meant. 

My heart had always felt for the oppressed, 

But ah ! the depths of woe upon him sent, 

I never guessed. 

And now affliction comes, I cannot bear it, 

I realize and feel what trouble is, 

And think the grief that overwhelms my spirit 
May be like his. 

Ah ! we must want for sympathetic kindness, 

Or we can ne’er bestow it as we ought. 

Our hearts may strive to give it in our blindness, 
And feel it not 

Experience ! thy tasks are sore and trying, 

And deep thy lines of grief traced on the heart, 
But guided by thee we can feel when dying, 
We’ve done our part. 


29 


THOUGHTS FOR THE TIMES. 


We sigh over evil’s progression, 

At the hideous aspect of crime, 

And, though ’tis a gloomy impression, 

We feel sin increases with time. 

For the fact is each new generation 
Instead of improving, grows worse, 
iVnd if things go on so, the nation 

Will sink indue time ’neath crime’s curse. 

Wild oats are quite easy to talk of, 

’Tis said they in youth should be sown ; 

But life is too short to make mock of, 

And poor logic is far worse than none, 

For why sow wild oats in the spirit 

Any more than rank weeds in the garden? 
We must reap and receive, as we merit, 

A penalty sooner than pardon. 

We cannot restrain crime’s advances 
Unless we strike deep at the root, 

For, though we may cut off the branches, 

The new ones will bear evil fruit. 

And so, in sin’s mazes bewildering, 

Don’t hesitate where to begin, 

But start out at once with the children, 

And purify them from all sin. 

Though children some faults may inherit, 
There is nothing more pure than a child. 
From these faults we might cleanse the spirit, 
And then keep it pure, undefiled. 

30 


True, talking is easier than doing 
’Midst all the allurements of sin, 

But the good from our good work ensuing, 

Is worthy of striving to win. 

In training of children, don’t threaten 
Any worse than you mean to perform, 

For they are not prone to forgetting 

When the cloud passes o’er without storm. 
By degrees, they will cease to respect you, 
And place little faith in your word, 

And, when in old age they neglect you, 

Too late you will see where you erred. 

/ 

Let parents first take up the matter, 

By training the children at home. 

Then teachers must strive to make better 
The good work already begun. 

And surely a co-operation 

Of parents and teachers won’t fail 
To lay a good moral foundation, 

And speedy improvement avail. 

In no way can good be taught faster 
Than it can be by keeping this rule, 

With encouraging words from the pastor 
Each week to his large Sunday-School. 

Oh, then let us make a beginning ! 

We surely shall have our reward, 

For keeping the children from sinning, 

Is the best way of serving the Lord. 


31 


BE OF GOOD CHEER. 


Be of good cheer ! Though dark the clouds may 
lower. 

And storms seem hovering all about thy head, 

Trust in the guidance of an unseen power 

To banish darkness and bring light instead ! 

Be of good cheer ! for angel forms surround thee ! 

Morning and evening they are with thee still. 

Think not thy friends are lost. They’re all around 
thee, 

Thy life with peace and comfort now to fill. 

Cares may oppress thee, doubting thoughts perplex 
thee, 

And o’er thy soul a mournful shadow cast. 

Dispel them when thou canst. Don’t let them vex 
thee. 

Be of good cheer ! ’twill all be right at last! 


AN ALLEGORY. 

In re the Division of Old Abitigtou. 

Old Madam A. was a wealthy dame, 

Who had three grown up daughters. 

Contentedly they lived with her 

In comfortable quarters, 

And thus they might have ever lived. 

Had each one not kept chickens, 

A trifle to disturb their peace. 

But it raised the very dickens. 

«/ 



Eugenia was a stately girl, 

A type of style, a true one. 

Her chicken coop had shabby grown, 

And she must have a new one. 

So with the others’ aid she built 
A structure lit and proper, 

For when she undertook to do 
No mortal power could stop her. 

Then Nora wished to build one, too. 

Not to outdo her sister. 

She needed one, so all agreed 
To take hold and assist her. 

’Twas made convenient, large and strong. 
With ample share of beauty. 

The chickens went contented there, 

As Twas, of course, their duty. 

Should Sarah be behind the rest 
In making proper shelter 

For her dear pets? No ; she would build 
If all the rest would help her. 

’Twas all the work of a master hand 
From garret to foundation, 

Well worthy of, as it received, 

A splendid dedication. 

Now why should not old Mother A. 

When she heard others telling 

How well her daughters kept their hens, 
Desire to build a dwelling? 


Or why should proud Eugenia fret 
At her old mother’s movements, 

If she did have a mansard roof 
Among her new improvements? 

For patient waiters, it is said, 

Will never be the losers, 

And, since the daughters had their way, 
Why should not Madam choose hers? 
But ah ! Eugenia railed, and said 
The cost had been outrageous. 

For her to take her share and leave 
Would be more advantageous. 

And so she left her mother’s home 
Supremely independent, 

And Madam smiled a loving smile 
Upon her proud descendant. 

But the old home ties were broken up, 
And Sarah left her mother, 

Feeling that she could face the world 
As well as any other. 

And now these two have gone away 
May all contention vanish, 

May Madam overlook the past, 

And they all hatred banish. 

May they, if Madam needs defence, 
Plead for her cause most loudly; 

May Madam ever friendly be. 

And look upon them proudly. 


34 


EVERETT AND SEYMOUR. 


Growing up together, 

Nearly of an age. 

To defend each other, 

Ready to engage, 

Bearing like afflictions, 
Sharing kindred joys, 
Everett and Seymour, 
Cheerful, merry boys. 

Faithful in the school-room, 
Now and then, perchance, 
Brimming o’er with mischief ; 

One reproving glance 
From their loving teacher, 
Checks all fun and noise, 
Everett and Seymour, 
Roguish, laughing boys. 

May their childish friendship 
Still with years increase ! 
May their life be blessed with 
Happiness and peace ! 

May they, e’en in manhood, 
Share each other’s joys, 
Everett and Seymour 
Then no longer boys. 


35 


r Jacob Poole, Feb. 2, 1875. 

Died\ James M. Poole, Oct. 20, 1875. 

(julian Poole, Feb. 3, 1876. 

Father and son and grandson met together 
In early autumn, eighteen-seventy-four. 

Old age and middle life, and early manhood, 

All bright and cheerful as the looks they bore. 

Healthy and hale and rugged, people called them, 
Pleasant and genial, full of harmless mirth, 
Grateful in hours of joy, in sorrow hopeful, 

Their cheering words lightened the cares of earth. 

That father’s work on earth was almost ended ; 

Disease beneath that calm exterior lay. 

In February, icy, cold and dreary, 

The angels bore his spirit-form away. 

It was a glorious thing his soul’s departure ! 

A goodly man had reached a good old age, 

And died a calm and peaceful death, well know¬ 
ing 

Life’s record was a fair, unsullied page. 

And then the son, a husband and a father, 

In loving care and kindness unsurpassed, 

Began to feel his life-long health was shattered, 

And though we nursed him carefully, at last 

The angels came, one sad October morning, 

And bore his spirit upward whence ’twas given. 
A noble man had passed away from earth, 

A soul divine, triumphant, entered heaven. 


And still death like a shadow hovered near us. 

One of the three was left to soothe our cares, 

And while he sought to hide his own hard suffer¬ 
ings, 

Came the Destroying Angel unawares, 

And rudely snatched him from his loving ones 
Before his father had been four months dead. 
Long years had he endured with scarce a mur- 
m u r 

The di re disease, that on his system fed. 

Cheerful and uncomplaining, few suspected, 

With manly form and cheek with ruddy glow, 
Consumption then was preying on his vitals, 

And marked him for her victim long ago. 

And thus our family circle has been broken, 

And while with deep submission now we bow, 
Our hearts send up this earnest, brief petition : 
u Nothing on earth can help us. Lord, wilt 
Thou ? ” 


LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. P. W. PRATT, 

February 11, 1876. 

Her children : Ethel Frances died Sept. 27, 1875 ; Grace I.ouisa died 
Sept.. 28, 1875 ; Marcia Ann died Feb. 4, 1876, 

She has gone from our midst who made home seem 
a heaven. 

Death has closed those kind lips that breathed 
accents of love. 


37 



The hand that caressed us lies cold on her bosom, 

While her spirit has flown to the fair realms 
above. 

She has gone to the dear babes who passed on be¬ 
fore her, 

Little Ethel and Grace, fair as angels, while 
here, 

And dear little Marcia was patiently waiting 

To welcome her home to a heavenly sphere. 

What words can be said that can soothe the af¬ 
flicted ? 

Though we feel that our loss is most truly her 
gain, 

But the parting is sad, and our hearts filled with 
anguish, 

Cry out for our dear ones, yet call but in vain. 

It was once a belief that Death’s dark, gloomy 
river 

Was o’erarched by a bow of most radiant hue, 

And that our dear friends who had passed on be¬ 
fore us 

To the heavenly land and were lost to our view, 

Could return o’er the shining and beautiful arch¬ 
way, 

As on Jacob’s bright ladder, and close by our 
side 

They could stand at the still holy hour of mid- 
night, 

Or in the calm hush of the sweet eventide. 


38 


Tis a beautiful thought, and God loveth his chil¬ 
dren ; 

His blessings fall free as the cool dews of even, 
And so it may be that our loved ones come some¬ 
times 

To the earth from their beautiful home up in 
Heaven. 

She has gone to her rest. We are left here to 
mourn her, 

Yet may we so live, while in earth-life we stay, 
As to fit us to meet her, no more to be parted, 

When the angel of death calls our spirits away. 

LINES TO P. W. PRATT, 

On the Death of Susie M. Pratt, his Daughter. 

Oh ! where is our fireside angel, 

Our dear little, merry Sue? 

With her rosy cheeks and sunny curls 
And eyes of Heaven’s own blue? 

There is no response to my query, 

Though I call the whole day long, 

For the angel of death has taken her 
To the bright Angelic throng. 

And the vacant chairs are many, 

And the heart’s deep pains are more, 

So many have crossed the river wide 
To the bright and radiant shore ; 

And I sit and gaze in the gloaming, 

At the clear bright western sky, 

For my sun has set. There is little left 
That I should not wish to die. 

39 



But those to whom life is dearest 
Are oftenest snatched away, 

While others must live in galling chains 
That grow heavier day by day ; 

And life was replete with sorrow 
Before little Susie left, 

And my stricken spirit seems benumbed, 

As again I am bereft. 

The evening shadows are falling, 

A bright star gleams on high, 

It seems as if she were beckoning 
From her home beyond the sky; 

And the starry canopy o’er me, 

Seems to me a heaven ideal. 

Ah ! when shall I soar to the realms above— 
To that bright and glorious Real? 


ON THE DEATH OF ELIZA GREENLEAF.* 

Another soul has left its earthly room, 

Gone with kind angels to a heavenly home. 

A vacant place is in the household now, 

Where beamed a cheerful face not long ago. 

Sorrow has thrown her mantle o’er each heart. 

No joy can former pleasures now impart. 

The deepest grief pervades each stricken soul, 
Now drinking deeply from affliction’s bowl. 

Parents, cease weeping ! your daughter’s not dead ! 
Husband, be comforted ! Lift up your head ! 

Lo ! your loved treasure will ever be near 
To brighten your lives and your pathway to cheer. 


40 




Guard ye the treasure she’s left to your care; 
Teach her while young how life’s sorrows to bear. 
Oh, may she prove a rich blessing at last 
To lift up your souls from the gloom of the past. 

* Ttie first poem I ever wrote. 


ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES I. LEAVITT. 

In whatever form the destroyer may come 
To lay low our loved ones and darken our home, 

The shock will be sudden, the grief will be deep, 
When we see the loved forms in their calm final 
sleep. 

It was swift as an arrow by warrior sped, 

The angel of death in our circle descended. 

The husband and father was placed with the dead ; 
His duties were o’er and his earth mission ended. 

The fond mother weeps o’er her eldest born son, 
Cut off when his life-work seemed hardly begun, 
And the father can hardly be well reconciled 
To the premature death of his first beloved child. 
They recall the glad days when he was their sole 
pet. 

The light of their home and the joy of each heart 
And his first prattling words they can never forget, 
And memory causes the tear-drops to start. 

They watched him with feelings of pride and of joy 
Till years made a man of their bright merry boy. 
There were others their love and attention to share, 
But Charlie was still ’neath their kind watchful 
care. 


41 



Thus life, with its changes passed on, till at length 
The country in danger called men to defend, 

And Charlie went forth in his young manly 
strength 

His own noblest efforts his country to lend. 

Alas ! that one act, during war’s fearful strife, 

Should change the bright youth and embitter his 
life ! 

There may be one now, who, in some remote spot, 

May read of his death with a sad, bitter thought. 

The glad youth was changed to a still, reserved 
man, 

His trust in all womankind woefully shattered; 

Till one, who as only a true woman can, 

Came to brighten his life and his bitter doubts 
scattered. 

There came little children to gladden his way, 

Little sunny-haired Agnes as fair as the day, 

And bright star-eyed Annie, the pet of them all; 

Their presence dispelled what his gloom might re¬ 
call. 

But he passed from their midst like a candle ex¬ 
tinguished 

By a whiff of the breeze, by one short, single 
breath, 

The poor weary body the spirit relinquished, 

And left it untrammeled by sickness and death. 

God pity the widow in time of distress ! 

And pity the children now made fatherless ! 


42 


Oh, take them within Thine own pitying care, 

And help them this life’s disappointments to bear ! 
And strenghten the parents who reared up their 
son, 

But to see him cutoff in the morn of his life, 
And make them to feel that his life has begun 
In that fairer world, free from sorrow and strife ! 


ON THE DEATH OF WILLIE T. SHERMAN 

Only a spirit freed ! Why do we mourn him ? 
Passed from the earth-life through Heaven’s 
bright portals. 

Tenderly, kindly, the angels have borne him 
Upward, to dwell with the blessed immortals. 

Freed from all trials and evils besetting, 

Freed from the pains and the troubles of earth, 
Why do we sigh with a tearful regretting? 

Our loved one has passed to a holier birth. 

Ah well ! ’tis the dearly-loved form that we 
cherish, 

Wherein the fair spirit so lately hath been ; 

It grieves us so deeply to know it must perish, 

And dust unto dust shall be gathered again. 

But ah ! could we part the thin, shadowy curtain, 
That veils Heaven’s joys from our imperfect 
sight, 

No more should we linger in doubting, uncertain, 


43 



We should know our loved one in the realms of 
delight. 

And oh ! weeping parents, believe this assurance, 
That Willie is near you to bless with his love ! 
And bear this affliction with patient endurance, 
Till God calls you home to the mansions above. 


ON THE DEATH OF REV. JOHN THOMSON. 

He sleeps at last in sweet repose. Life’s weary 
pangs are o’er, 

To the trials of this earth-life he will never waken 
more. 

Death’s icy seal is set for aye upon that noble 
brow, 

The light of life from those bright eyes is gone for¬ 
ever now. 

A little while to linger—but a few short years at 
best— 

And we, too, must cross the river to the land of 
perfect rest; 

Rest for those who blessed humanity, when earth 
was their abode, 

And, imbued with Christian spirit, worked as mes¬ 
sengers of God. 

We have seen true Christian precepts in the heart 
that now is cold, 

The tongue that now is silent, many a noble truth 
has told. 


44 



And his warm and genial manner, his kind and 
pleasant face, 

Have brought many a longing spirit to the Father’s 
throne of grace. 

They will miss him—they who loved him—the 
dear ones he has left. 

But ’tis not alone the family—the world has been 
bereft; 

For the good are few in numbers, and, when one to 
Heaven is borne. 

The loss of one so precious every friend of truth 
will mourn. 

But to Thee, our Heavenly Father, who, we know, 
each spirit sees, 

We pray that we may patiently submit to Thy de- 
decrees, 

For we know Thy love is infinite, thy mercy without 
bound, 

And at last may we in Heaven, with eternal joys 
be crowned. 


ON THE DEATH OF MARION E. PENNOCK. 

Dead ! How that little word, so cold, heart-chilling, 
E’en when we speak of those but little known, 
With grief and anguish sets our pulses thrilling, 
When we must needs apply it to our own. 


45 



Gone ! And her patient, uncomplaining spirit 
Is free, and yet our hearts are sorely grieved ! 

E’en though we feel her soul’s true worth and merit 
A perfect compensation have received. 

Early in life, indeed, the angels sought her 
Ere sin and sorrow had her life o’ercast. 

Pu re as a little child,our only daughter, 

From earthly scenes to heavenly pleasures passed. 

By day, by night, we miss her cheerful presence. 
Sleep soothes us for a time, but oh, how brief! 

We can but wait. We know time only lessens, 

And blunts the keen edge of the sharpest grief. 

We hope to meet her in the blest hereafter 
To see that form that we have loved so well, 

To clasp her hand, to hear her merry laughter, 

And there in peace for evermore to dwell. 


ON THE DEATH OF W. W. EEAVITT. 

Once Friendship, that magical painter, 
Portrayed, with a wonderful skill, 

A picture of exquisite beauty, 

I hold it in memory still. 

But oh ! ’tis with feelings of sadness 
I gaze on that picture to-day, 

For Willie, in life’s early morning, 

Has passed from the earth-life away. 

Ah me ! As I gaze on this picture, 

I think, in the years that have flown, 


46 



What changes have happened to many, 

Whom once I called fondly my own. 

The sweet by-and-by may be pleasant, 

Of this we can think, but not know. , 

To me there is something more real, 

’Tis the beautiful sweet long ago. 

We do not appreciate fully 
The pleasures Lite strews on our w r ay, 

Till Time, with his pitiless lingers, 

Has taken them rudely away ; 

By bitter experience truly, 

We see ourselves rightly at last, 

Beholding, too late to improve them, 

The rare opportunities past. 

A dearlv-loved friend has been taken, 

Cutoff in the spring-time of life. 

His spirit is free from the trials, 

With which earth-existence is rife. 

No doubt, with that kind elder brother, 

He looks on his friends here below, 

And, with that loving kindness, which marked 
him, 

His love for his earth-friends would show r , 

But oh, loving parents ! though Willie 

Has passed from your natural view-, 

By God’s loving kindness and mercy, 

He still will be near unto von. 

*/ 

And when, at the yearly Thanksgiving, 

You gather a twice-broken band, 

Then Willie and Charley m spirit 
Anear you will lovingly stand. 

47 


LINES WRITTEN 

On the First Anniversary of the Death of Alice Learned in Feb., 1876. 

Just a twelve-month has elapsed since our Alice 
Slept in the body, in spirit to wake ; 

Sipped of the nectar of Heaven’s golden chalice 
That gives life immortal to all who partake. 

Ended her mission here, patient and dutiful, 
Faithful and true to herself and her God, 

Gone to the realms of the bright and the beautiful, 
There to receive everlasting reward. 

Hard was her journey to reach the fair portals, 
And, when the angels came over the river, 

Kindly to bear her to join the immortals, 

Bravely she went, without tremor or quiver. 

Worn with her sufferings and pains long extended, 
Calmly she bore without any complaint.. 

Nature exhausted, ere earth-life was ended, 

Gave but this murmur at last, “I am faint.”* 

Then the kind angels in tenderness grasped her, 
Robed her in garments of heavenly light. 

And her dear father in loving arms clasped her, 
Welcoming her to those realms fair and bright. 

Softly her words came from over the river: 

“Weep not dear husband and mother, for me; 

I shall be with you, to watch o’er you ever; 

Life was a burden, but death set me free. 


48 


“Free to watch over our dear little treasure. 

Needless I ask for her welfare and care. 

Ye, who e’er sought my own comfort and pleasure, 
Surely will give her a bountiful share.” 

* Her last words. 


LOST —A FRIEND. 

I shall grow used to it all, in time. 

Pain is keenest when grief is new ; 

But oh ! what misery when the heart 
Finds its most trusted friend untrue ! 

But still I must bear it all, and live, 

Live and endure it, all alone ; 

Trying in patience to watch and wait 
The good outwrought from the evil done. 

I sit and think of those by-gone days, 

When life was illumined by hope's bright ray ; 
When, friends together, we gaily planned 
The sweetest joys for some future day. 

Why did not some warning reach me then, 

That after a time you would prove untrue? 

Yet why do I murmur? In those bright days 
I should have believed no guile in you. 

Those hours were hours of sweetest bliss. 

Those pleasures my heart will ne’er forget. 
And, though you turn from me coldly now, 

Oh friend of the past! I love you yet! 


49 



And so, in silence I bear my grief, 

For words can nothing avail me now, 
Praying and trusting to win you back, 
And angels only, can teach me how. 


A PICTURE. 

What ails that unfortunate fellow in there? 

He looks a true picture of wretched despair. 

With one hand on his stomach and one on his head, 
He looks sick enough to be laid in his bed. 

I’ll tell you the secret, ’tis really no joke. 

That poor foolish boy has been trying to smoke. 

He took a few whiff's, and gave a few blows, 

But a very poor “chimney,” indeed, is his nose. 

Again, lie’s determined to learn while lie’s young, 
With a peppermint lozenge on top of his tongue. 
But tobacco is strongest. He staggers and reels, 
And nobody knows just how wretched he feels. 

At last he has conquered, he thinks. Foolish 
youth ! 

Tobacco has conquered him ! That is the truth ! 

His past cleanliness he may struggle to save, 

But tobacco has made him its foul, filthv slave. 

The habit at last is matured and ripe ; 

He drops the cigar for the nasty clay pipe. 

His neatness is gone, to return nevermore, 

And he smokes in folks’ faces, and spits on the 
floor. 

50 



His wife, whom he won by deception and lies, 
Regards him at first with an air of surprise, 

And the lover, whom once she fondly could trust,. 
She looks upon now with a sigh of disgust 

Like many a lover, who smokes and who chews, 

He stifled tobacco with cloves and cachous. 

But, now that the woman he wanted is won, 

He turns him again to his pipe and his rum. 

If he lives to be old, let us view him again, 

With streams of tobacco all over his chin. 

His clothing is spotted with snufi'-colored drool, 

He reminds you at once of a slave and a fool. 

Then young man, beware ! There is no honest man,. 
But who will advise you to stop while you can. 

You can master it now, but believe me ’tis true, 

It will soon, very soon, become master of you. 


WE MISS OUR BOYS. 

Inscribed to Mr. and Mrs. Simeon Whitmarsh, 1878. 

We’re growing old, my wife and I, 

Our youth lies far behind us- 
And failing strength and failing sight 
And other things remind us, 

That life’s fair spring for us is o’er. 

We miss its many joys, 

But more than all the rest, alas ! 

We miss our noble boys. 


51 



It seems but little while ago, 

A few short years to me, 

When thev were little children here, 

And sat upon my knee ; 

Or older grown, so good to work, 

Both in and out of doors ; 

Ready, when parents both were tired, 

To go and do the chores. 

But now they’re gone. The walls no more 
Echo their boyish glee. 

No whistled tunes, no merry laugh ; 

These things have ceased to be. 

We sit alone, my wife and I, 

When the day’s work is o’er, 

And love to think and talk about 
Those good old days of yore. 

When Albert comes to see us now, 

He brings one little treasure 

Our little grandchild, fair and bright, 

Who fills our hearts with pleasure. 

He has a trade and prospers well, 

In all his work is faithful; 

That life is fair to him and his 
We’ve reason to be grateful. 

And Henry lives some miles away, 

With business cares encumbered, 

So that his visits to our home 
Are very few in number. 

But one there is, who nevermore 


52 


The old home doors will tread ; 

Our Elmer, youngest of our band, 

Is sleeping with the dead. 

Cut down in youth, while yet his cheek 
Was flushed with ruddy glow, 

Full of ambition, hopes and plans, 

Yet he was called to go. 

And death will seem less gloomy now, 
For when this life is o’er 
His spirit fair, will meet ns there 
On Heaven’s bright radiant shore. 


LEAVING THE DEAR OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. 

The Autumn with its rich ripe fruits is here, 

Its many-tinted leaves, and clear cool air. 

And never, to my eye, in all the year, 

Does Nature wear an aspect half so fair. 

The farmer gathers in his golden grain. 

He looks with pride upon his garnered store, 
And, in his heart, he feels himself repaid 
For his hard labor in the spring before. 

To you, dear friends, have we displayed to-day 
What we have gathered from the seeds we’ve 
sown, 

And if our harvest has not amply paid 

Our hours of toil and all the tasks we’ve done, 


53 



We feel that, as the farmer gathers fruits 
From trees, whose seeds were planted long ago, 
So some good seeds, although not yet matured, 

May germinate within us as we grow. 

And in the years to come, we’ll pluck the fruit 
From trees of knowledge, nurtured fondly here ; 
And so with ready hands and hearts we’ve worked, 
And now we soon must leave our school-room dear. 

What memories sweet will till our saddened hearts ! 

What recollections dear, will till each mind ! 
Associations, ne’er to be renewed, 

When we are called to part with schoolmates 
kind ! 

But ere we leave this dear beloved spot, 

We feel it as a duty, that we show 
To parents, teacher, friends, committee, all, 

With feeble words, the gratitude we owe. 

Dear parents, as a class, we thank you all, 

For the advantages, which you have given, 

And though your kindness we can ne’er repay, 

We trust you will receive reward in Heaven. 

Dear teacher, we are grateful unto you, 

For all the patience and the care you’ve shown, 
And, as in learning’s path we all advance, 

We’ll not forget by whom the seed was sown. 

Committee, too, receive our heartfelt thanks 
For your approving words and watchful care, 
And, when we go to other scenes to learn, 

May we retain your supervision there. 

54 


Dear schoolmates we shall soon be forced to part, 
And, ere we part, we wish you good success, 

And all your efforts for the good and true 
In future, may our Heavenly Father bless ! 

Dear classmates we must separated be, 

To follow learning’s course in different spots ; 

But memories of the happy hours we’ve worked 
Together here, will give us pleasant thoughts. 

And now the hour for closing has drawn near, 
And I must pause. The time is flying fast, 

And, if my recitation has seemed long, 

Please pardon me, for it must be the last! 


INVOCATION. 

Oh God of the Universe ! Spirit that dwells 
In all and through all ! in whom we all live ! 

We offer Thee thanks for Thy love, which excels 
The love most exalted that mortals can give. 

Oh Infinite One ! Though we know that Thou art 
Beyond comprehension of weak, finite mind, 

We feel Thy kind presence, adore it unseen, 

And drink in the light of Thy spirit divine. 

Oh who can deny Thee? The Atheist e’en, 

Doth worship Thee under a different name. 

He knows and reveres some intelligent force 
As we worship Thee. It is one and the same. 


55 



Oh, break all the shackles that fetter our minds, 
Great Spirit of Love ! Give Thy beautiful light 
To our eyes, that no more we in spirit be blind, 
And aid us to walk in the pathway of right! 


THE MOTHER’S DREAM. 

“I cannot let you go !” the mother cried, 

The tears uprising from her grief-wrung heart. 

“I cannot give you up, my precious treasure ! 

I cannot let you from my sight depart !’’ 

She clasped the child more closely to her bosom, 
As if she fain would keep it there for aye. 

But ah ! Death’s icy hand lay cold upon it, 

And tore her darling from her arms away. 

A little shroud they made, and wrapped about him, 
The while the mother moaned in anguish wild, 
And cried, “How can I ever live without him? 

My precious one ! my own, my only child !’’ 

’Twas pitiful to see her bitter pain, 

And w r hen the last sad solemn rites were o’er, 
Her heart gave way completely to her grief, 

And she bewailed her heavy loss the more. 

Exhausted by her grief one night, she slept, 

And in her restless slumbering, she dreamed 
The gates of Heaven were opened to her vision, 
And she beheld the angel host, it seemed. 


56 



Oh ! there were throngs of merry, bright-eyed chil¬ 
dren, 

Supremely happy, in that realm so fair. 

And all around she looked to find her darling, 

In vain. She could not see him anywhere. 

At last, when she was almost in despair, 

She saw him struggling painfully, along, 

No radiant smile lit up his lovely features, 

As wearily he moved among the throng. 

She called to him. u What troubles you, my darling V* 
She said in tender tones. “Can you not be 
As happy as these hosts of little children, 

Whom all around you, dear one, now I see?” 

“Mamma,” he cried, “There’s something here that 
hurts me !” 

He laid upon his heart his little hand. 

“They tell me there’s a golden cord bound round it 
And you and papa hold the other end. 

It tires me when I try to move, dear mother ! 

They tell me ’tis because you love me so 
You will not break the cord to earth that binds me, 
But oh ! dear mother, wont you let me go? 

I’ll come to see you often, dearest mother, 

And papa too, and if I cannot speak 
I’ll lay my little hand upon his forehead, 

And try to kiss you, mother, on your cheek !” 


She woke. A holy calm had fallen on her, 

The meaning of her dream was all revealed. 

She cried aloud, “Go thou in peace, my darling ! 
To give thee joy, to angels thee I yield.” 

She missed him—ah ! how bitterly she missed him 
Yet seemed to feel his presence every week, 
Just at the hour when last her lips had kissed him 
And seemed to feel his kiss upon her cheek ! 


A FAREWELL TRIBUTE TO THE OLD STOVE. 

August 6th, r88o. 

Good-bye, old stove—thou dear old stove ! 

Thou household treasure, that I love ! 

For twenty years a family friend, 

And now thy stay with us must end. 

How many times in by-gone days, 

All grouped before thy cheerful blaze, 

We’ve chatted, all in merry glee, 

Unmindful of what was to be ! 

And there, before thy glowing grate, 

With laughing eyes and hearts elate, 

We shook the popper o’er thy top, 

And watched the kernels parch and pop. 

Our mother, then, by our desire, 

Stirred the molasses o’er the fire. 

And soon, beneath her skilful hand, 

The cornballs came, that we had planned. 



How many a dainty hast thou baked, 
Rich pies and puddings, bread and cake ! 
What savory viands boiled and fried ! 

Old friend ! indeed, thou hast been tried. 

But now, thou’rt ’most a worn out thing, 
Yet round thee still we fain would cling. 
We’d keep thee idle—but the rust 
Would soon destroy—so part we must. 

Some of our band have passed beyond, 
Who used with us to sit around 
Thy form, old friend ! With aching heart 
We’ve seen them one by one depart. 

Yet we shall see them, by-and-by, 

When this poor mortal frame shall die. 
But when thy form has left our door 
We ne’er expect to see thee more. 

What though inanimate thou art, 

From thee in sadness do we part, 

And we shall feel, till life shall end, 

That thou hast been a faithful friend. 


FOR WHOM SHALL WE VOTE ? 

Composed for the Campaign of 1880. 

Which shall we vote for, Garfield or Hancock? 

That is the question before us to-day, 

Shall we uphold the Republican party, 

Or shall our vote give the Democrats sway? 


59 



What are the requisites for a good president? 

Merely an aptness for martial control? 

Both candidates have in this had experience, 

But, to consider it, is this the whole? 

If we forever were on the aggressive, 

Warlike, belligerent, then we might need 
Some one like Hancock, to lead us in battle, 
Though some excel him, at least so we read. 

But we have had war with all of its horrors ; 

Now is the time for contention to cease. 

Hayes has done well, and his administration 
Famous will be for its record of peace. 

We want a man with a record of statesmanship. 

We want a man, pure, unselfish and true. 

One who will look to the good of his country, 

And knowing the right, will the right course pur¬ 
sue. 

Laying aside all political preference, 

Laying all prejudice now, on the shelf, 

Is a man fitted to govern this country, 

Who is not able to govern himself? 

Here I will give you a brief little anecdote, 

Nor do I deem it untimely forsooth, 

All I narrate here is strictly authentic; 

Plenty there are who can vouch for its truth. 


GO 


When the poor soldiers, all weary and dust be¬ 
grimed, 

Halted one eve near the site of a mill, 

Happy were they when with soap and with towels 
They washed in a pond near the foot of the hill. 

Then came a sudden command from the General; 
Quick, in slang parlance, ‘‘they packed up their 
duds,” 

And in their hurry, there was no alternative, 

But their canteens must be filled with soap suds. 

Many there were, who, of course, could not drink 
if ’ . - 

Early next morning they wentonthe march. 

Reaching a fine stream of clear running water, 
They sought to moisten their throats, dry and 
parched. 

While their canteens they were quickly replenish¬ 
ing 

From the cool depths of the clear flowing stream, 

Up came the General. Incensed at their actions, 
He told them to empty, at once, each canteen. 

Quick they obeyed this tyrannical order. 

Onward they marched, while the hot day grew 
hotter, 

Till, when the General came to review them, 

Some were so thirsty, they cried out for water. 


(;i 


This made the General highly indignant- 

This was the way that he showed them his power. 
“Through a battalion drill, now, on the double 
quick, 

Colonel,” he said, “put them for a whole hour.” 

This is the man nominated for president, 

Winfield S. Hancock. Are such men as he 
Fit to assume the control of the government? 
Under him where would our liberty be? 

Look now at Garfield, a soldier, a statesman, 

War and peace elements in him combined. 
Gentle in manner, but faithful in purpose, 

Here a desirable leader we find. 

And when we read the Republican platform, 

Unto which Garfield most firmly adheres, 

When we look back on the great good accom¬ 
plished 

By this same power in the past twenty years, 

We conscientiously now can uphold it, 

What it has been we believe it will be ; 

But if the Democrats gain the supremacy 
Civil contention too soon we shall see. 

Feeling that “honesty is the best policy,” 

We’ll not resort to ambiguous ways ; 

Openly, honestly, will we elect him, 

Garfield, successor to Rutherford Haves. 


CONFLICTING CLAIMS. 

1880. 

“What do the Democrats desire? 

Pray tell us if you can, sir?” 

And from the various states there comes 
A very varied answer. 

‘‘What of finance?” New York replies, 
“We’ll tell you what the case is. 

Hard money, sir, is what we want, 

A good financial basis. 

“But hark ! a voice from Illinois 
Now bids New York be quiet. 

“Not gold, but greenbacks do we want. 
Our money shall be fiat.” 

“That is a minor point to us, 

Our prospects will be fair, if” 

Says Pennsylvania, “we can have 
A high protective tariff. 

“Hold on,” now Indiana cries, 

“Lest error should be made, 

We want it plainly understood 
That we demand free trade !” 

“Why quarrel on such trivial things?” 

Each Southern state complains. 

“We wish to ask a settlement 
Of our presented claims !” 

63 


The Massachusetts Democrat 
This statement overhears. 

“D’ye think,” he says, “I’ll vote to pay 
The men I fought for years, 

Because they did not chance to win 
While in the battle front? 

I am a thorough Democrat, 

But vote for that I won’t.” 

Still far and wide for Hancock rise 
Loud cheers, prolonged and hearty, 

But does he, can he, represent 
The Democratic party?’’ 

If so, he is a wondrous man. 

They’ve made a wise selection. 

Nor is it strange, this prodigy 
They think will gain election ! 


OVER AND OVER AGAIN. 

All things in Nature repeat themselves, 

Over and over again. 

And life seems a play theatrical,held 
Over and over again. 

The waves come in on the sandy shore, 

To-dav as they have in da vs before, 

And to-morrow they’ll come the same once more, 
Over and over again. 

o 


64 



The grass grows up and withers and dies, 

Over and over again. 

And the stars come out in the bright blue skies. 
Over and over again. 

Each season comes and as quickly goes, 

The buds of spring and the summer blows, 

The falling leaves and the winter snows, 

Over and over again. 

We toil each day for shelter and food, 

Over and over again. 

And over our cares and troubles brood, 

Over and over again. 

We wish for riches, we wish for fame, 

For love, for beauty, for honored name, 

And all to no purpose. Life’s work’s the same, 
Over and over again. 

Infancy, childhood, youth and age, 

Over and over again. 

This life is a book that is read, each page, 

Over and over again. 

Once, only once can we read eatdi leaf; 

There are so many, the time is brief, 

But others will read the same joy and grief, 
Over and over again. 

There’s one thing surely can pleasure give, 

Over and over again, 

And that is in trying, each day we live, 

Over and overa<rain, 

^ 7 


To work for our fellow-creatures’ good, 

To do unto others, just as we would 
Have them do to us, if they only could, 

Over and over again. 

I think that must be what they do in Heaven 
Over and over again. 

Helping earth’s children, tempest-driven, 
Over and over again. 

Ah ! that is surely a joy complete, 

Can we think of pleasure or joy more sweet 
Than gladdening the hearts of all we meet, 
Over and over again. 


ACROSTIC. 

1886. 

Friend, in these lines I wish to trace 
A tribute of respect and love. 

You may in after years, perhaps, 

» 

Be pleased to see how true they prove. 
Remember, as life’s hill you climb, 

In search of knowledge, wealth and fame, 
Good people are the truly great. 

Heaven gives them an immortal name. 
All impure words, all evil deeds, 

Make scars upon the spirit fair ; 

Kindle a flame, in which the soul 
Endures a torture, hard to bear. 



Nerve, then, thyself to war ’gainst sin, 

Do all the good within your power, 

And when, earth’s duties over, you 
Lav down this form for evermore, 

Loved ones will bear you to a fairer shore. 


NEGLECTED. 

She has passed away from earth’s noise and din, 
Uncared for, poor woman ! by friend or kin. 

She labored long, till her strength gave waj T , 
And now, a pauper, is laid away. 

No thought is given o’er the cold remains. 

How she has suffered, what cares and pains, 

And as you gaze on the wrinkled brow 
You cannot imagine it, years ago, 

Devoid of furrows. Her once fair cheek 
Etched with time’s traces will bespeak 
No tale of the beauty, long since lied. 

But, poor old lady ! now she is dead. 

Remember she once was young and fair, 

And courted and praised. Her soft brown hair 
In shining ringlets fell round her face. 

No vestige of care you then could trace. 

Think ye, who stand secure to-day, 

Reckless of time as it flies away, 

Ere many years, you, bereft of all, 

Even in a pauper’s grave may fall. 


07 



TO TWO FRIENDS ABOUT TO START ON THEIR 

WEDDING TOUR. 

1887. 

The Germans use a beautiful phrase 
When friends are about to part. 

I do not think a warmer wish 

Could come from the human heart. 

A happy home-coming 1 Oh beautiful thought, 

In words full of meaning clad. 

Let me wish it for you. May welcoming hearts 
Make your home-coming glad ! 

May it be a time that you may recall 
In the years to come, with pleasure ; 

May it be engraved on Memory’s page, 

A picture you love to treasure. 

Whether joys or sorrows your path o’erspread, 
Whether lights or shadows fall, 

May it be a pleasure, in retrospect, 

This coming home to recall. 

1 trust that a future, bright and fair, 

May be your allotted portion ; 

And when your voyage, friends, shall end, 

O 11 earth-life’s changeful ocean, 

A happy home-coming be yours to know 
In the beautiful land of spirit, 

And the fruits of your mission here below 
Be yours in Heaven to inherit. 


08 


THE DEATH OF ROVER. 


The faithful dog is dead ! 

Is there no heaven for creatures such as these 
Dumb, faithful servants, who in days gone by 
In their mute fashion ever strove to please? 

Is there no heaven for them when they die? 

Ah me ! it sometimes seems 
That creatures that have minds almost akin 
To human minds, must likewise have a soul, 

A germ of life immortal hid within, 

For rough exteriors oft a gem enfold. 

Good dog ! the tears will start 
Whene’er I think thy useful life is o’er, 

That thou art dead. Nor do I feel it shame 
To weep for thee. Some trusted friends of yore, 
Now less deservedly my grief could claim. 


FORGIVEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. 

'Why ask me why I do not seem 
As in those sunny days of yore? 

You know that after what has passed 
Things can’t be as they were before. 
Your angry words, your cruel tones 
I willingly forgive, and yet 
While memory serves her duty true 
I never, never can forget. 


69 



Sometimes I’ve though the wound was healed, 
And, in the sunshine of your smile, 

I’ve laughed and talked without restraint, 
Cheerful and happy for awhile, 

When suddenly some random word, 

The old, old wound would ope anew, 

And then that cold November day 
Of bitter pain, would rise to view. 

4 

I know you thought that you were right; 

My actions you misunderstood. 

I’m still your friend, but what is passed 
We cannot alter, though we would. 

But may this lesson, sadly learned, 

Teach us more lenient hence to be; 

Remembering every word we speak 
Is spoken for eternity. 


ONE OF THE “MANY MANSIONS.” 

1887. Inscribed to Mrs. M. A. Keyes, Norfolk, Conn. 

We’ve a beautiful home for you mother, 
I11 the glorious land of light, 

A mansion fair for your dwelling place, 
Whose walls are snowy white. 

There are beautiful flowers around it, 
Bright blossoms with foliage green. 

Ah ! words but faintly describe it, 

This bright and heavenly scene. 


70 



We have patiently worked, dear mother, 
In building this home for you, 
Although you have helped us to build it 
More than you thought or knew. 

For every noble action 
And every word of love, 

Furnishes spiritual elements 
Towards building the home above. 

It is not as yet completed, 

Your earth-work is not yet o’er. 

But when you shall leave the body, 

And cross to a fairer shore, 

We shall be there to welcome 
Your soul, to the land of joys, 

For none are more anxious to serve you 
Than your two affectionate boys. 


A DAY AT HOG ISLAND. 

July 18, 1889. 

“Let’s go to Hog Island !” The cry rang aloud 
From Eliza and Berta. “Let’s get up a crowd ! 
Who’ll go to Hog Island?” Like sounding alarm 
The cry reached from Shell Point to Riverside 
Farm. 

“We’ll get Captain Stevens, at little expense, 

To carry us over. Round trip twenty cents. 

“We’ll carry our dinners. Our hammocks we’ll 
take, 


71 



And we’ll have everything on Hog Island awake !” 
First Jarvis and Alice to go did agree, 

And Seth was as willing “as willing could be.” 

Mrs. Kemp, Mrs. Poole and Edwin, her son, 

Agreed to the plan when ’twas scarcely begun, 

And Lucv and Lizzie and Arabel A— 

And old Mr. Eaton and young Kittie K— 

And Bessie and Gertie made up a good list, 

With Henry, the man “who will never be missed.’’ 
And when Mr. Kemp appeared on the scene 
He was eager to go, but improved on the scheme. 
By suggesting clam chowder as part of the feast, 
Which among the attractions was surely not least. 
July eighteenth arrived. ’Twas a beautiful day, 
The sun shone out clear o’er the fair sparkling bay. 
Before eight o’clock the potatoes were pared, 

The clams, pork and onions were duly prepared, 

And placed in a four gallon kettle, and then 
Were borne to the shore by two resolute men. 

The rest followed after. On reaching the shore 
They found their gay party made larger by four, 

Miss Churchill of Brockton, George, Harry and Fred. 
The water was calm as the face of the dead, 

But the captain and mate struggled hard at the oar, 
And they soon left behind them old Onset’s fair 
shore, 

And after a two hours’ monotonous sail, 

Which was scarcely relieved by the ghost of a gale, 
The boat on the shore of Hog Island drew up, 

And they saw the young Louis out fishing for scup. 


72 


The party once landed, they climbed up the hill, 

A task that required considerable skill. 

The kettle was placed on a stove, made of rocks, 
And Jarvis began cutting up an old box 
With an old time-worn hatchet, whose edge was as 
keen, 

As the jokes oft repeated by young Henry Dean. 

Mr. Kemp, the only man fitted to do so, 

Enacted the part of Robinson Crusoe, 

And Jarvis, as Friday, assisted with zest, 

To make the clam-chowder a steaming success. 

The rest of the party, like invited guests, 

In chairs and in hammocks did lazily rest, 

Or wandered about ’neath the cool shady trees, 

To pick evergreen and enjoy the fine breeze. 

When dinner was ready, a famishing horde 
Was gathered around the festival board, 

And prepared to devour, with what strength they 
were able 

The viands dispensed from an improvised table. 

But Jarvis was missing from this cheerful scene, 
And so was Miss Churchill, likewise Henry Dean, 
But I’m pleased to relate, ere the chowder was cold 
The wanderers returned from their quite prolonged 
stroll. 

Then George, the photographer, fixed up a group, 
With Louis bent over, but not in the soup, 

And Jarvis was holding his big empty cup, 

And Mr. Kemp, ready for filling it up, 

With kettle in hand took a natural position, 

While Henry appeared in a happy condition. 


This picture once caught, he arranged them once 
more, 

And Bessie looked happier now, than before. 

When the pictures were taken, the company di¬ 
vided, 

And several to stroll on the sea-shore decided. 

And Edwin and Louis played cribbage awhile, 
While Seth in a hammock the time did beguile, 

And Bessie in hammock, some distance away, 

Was reading a novel, I’m sorry to say. 

Returned from the beach, to sweet music entranc¬ 
ing, 

There were several spent half an hour in dancing. 
Then Alice and Edwin and Jarvis and dames 
Played cards, high-low-Jack, till they played six¬ 
teen games, 

The while Mrs. Kemp was enjoying the breeze. 

And tired Mrs. Poole took a nap ’neath the trees. 
Then supper was served. ’Twas a tempting repast, 
But one of those things that are too bright to last, 
And the captain declared it was time to depart, 

So every one made preparations to start. 

But Henry was absent, and Amy as well, 

And what had become of them? Ah ! who could 
tell? 

The island was scoured from shore to shore, 

Each party returning “no news” as before. 

At last ’twas decided to leave them behind 
To enjoy the seclusion, to which they inclined, 

When suddenly, mounting the hill they appeared, 


74 


They had not been drowned in the bay, as was 
feared. 

The boat was soon started in westerly track, 

And many an eye was cast longingly back 
Toward the beautiful isle, where a fine day they’d 
passed, 

And each hoped that this trip would not be the 
last. 

No accident marred the day’s brilliant success, 
Except the slight burning of Mrs. Poole’s dress, 
And the loss, quite distressing, of five or six 
knives; 

Thus endeth the tale of one day in our lives. 


TO MRS. PHEBE DUSENBURY, 

1889. 

Beloved friend, before we part, 

Some words of tribute we would bring, 

Well knowing that thy noble heart 
Will not despise our offering. 

Wide is the field where thou hast wrought, 
Oh, blessed minister of health ! 

Giving to every one who sought, 

A boon more precious far than wealth. 

The fever heat, the racking pain, 

Yielded to thy magnetic touch, 

The cripple laid away his cane 

And threw aside the useless crutch. 



The sick, the blind, the deaf, the lame, 
Received a blessing from thy hand, 

And thousands of poor sufferers came 
From every part of this fair land. 

But best of ail, thy healing power 
Illuminates the clouded brain. 

She well deserves Heaven’s richest dower 
Who ministers to the insane. 

Oh may thy future life on earth 

Be fraught with happiness and peace ! 

And angels greet thy higher birth 
When death thy spirit shall release ! 


PASSED TO HIGHER LIFE. 

Inscribed to Mr. and Mrs. A. W. Turner. 1878. 

Two little lovely rosebuds 

Plucked from the parent stem ! 

Two more beautiful jewels 
In Heaven’s bright diadem ! 

Over the beautiful river 

Where all is bright and fair, 

There are our little treasures, 

Safely at home, “over there.’’ 

Twice have the birds and flowers 
Made their brief sojourn here, 

Twice have the frosts of winter 
Made earth naked and drear, 



Since Willie, our eldest darling, 

Was snatched from our little band, 
Passed from the scenes of earth-life 
And entered the spirit-land. 

Soon to our family circle, 

The Death Angel came again. 

It was our youngest, our Freddie, 

He took a wav from us then. 

«/ 

For a brief season of comfort 
Two little treasures were given, 

Now little Frankie and Floydie 

Dwell with their brothers in Heaven. 

Thus death loses its terrors, 

We can hopefully wait. 

Knowing our loved ones await us 
There at the Beautiful Gate. 

So when our Father calls us 
To rest on that blissful shore, 

We shall meet with our darlings 
To part with them nevermore. 


ON THE DEATH OF HERBERT S. PORTER. 

Swiftly a keen and cruel shaft, 

Sped to you from Death’s quiver. 

Swiftly an angel came to waft 
Little Herbert over the river. 

Clasped him close to a loving breast, 



Bore him away to the land of rest, 
To the Home across the river. 


In the casket of polished wood, 

Lay ye all that is mortal, 

While the spirit so pure and good, 

Has passed through Heaven’s portal, 
Press a kiss on the dear loved face 
Then ye must yield to the earth’s embrace 
That which is not immortal. 


Oh that our eyes were opened wide, 
Perfect our earthly vision ! 

That we might view across the tide 
The beautiful realms elysian. 

But with faith we must work and wait 
Till we pass through the pearly gate, 
Beautiful, grand transition ! 


Dear little boy ! there were earth-friends nigh, 
As his feeble breath grew stiller, 

And angel friends from beyond the sky, 

Willie and little Arvilla. 

Over the river he waits for you 
Parents and sister, and brother true, 

The gate is ajar for your coming too, 

As he waits by the golden pillar ! 


78 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. WASHINGTON PETERSON 

Noiselessly—silently, 

As comes the starlight at the evening hour 
As comes the frost, that blights the autumn flower, 
Came the Death Angel, all unseen, unheard. 

Ye felt his presence, though he spoke no word, 

But calmly beckoned and the spirit fled, 

And one more form was numbered with the dead. 

Quietly—peacefully, 

As comes the gentle dew at summer even, 

An unseen help is to the spirit given, 

The heart’s pulsations ceased. The spirit blessed, 
Soared to the mansions of eternal rest. 

Gentle and good her life and her reward 
To live forever with her blessed Lord. 

Hopefully—prayerfully, 

Oh mourner, lift thine eyes to Heaven now ! 
Crushed though thou be, yet all submissive, bow ! 
Great is thy loss, but greater is her gain, 

To leave earth’s many woes, life’s weary pain. 

The spirit called, she heeded his request, 

“Come unto me, and I will give you rest!” 


ON THE DEATH OF WIELIE SHAW. 

There’s a shadow on the hearthstone, 
The house is wrapped in gloom, 
And a calm, a dreary stillness 
Pervadeth every room. 


79 



No merry childish laughter 
Re-echoes in the air. 

There’s a vacant place at table, 
There’s a little empty chair. 

■i 

Yes, we’ve lost our little darling, 

And but little while ago, 

He was with us, bright and cheerful, 
Gayly running to and fro, 

Only three brief days of illness, 

Days of suffering intense, 

While we anxiously watched o’er him 
In those hours of dread suspense. 

And his little pulse grew fainter 
Till at last he was so weak 
That he tried in vain, poor Willie, 

To kiss his mother’s cheek ; 

Tried in vain to give his father 
One affectionate caress, 

And at length his heart was silent, 
And our darling was at rest. 

Oh, our fondest hopes were centred 
In our boy, our only child ! 

And to lose our bud of promise 
Can our hearts be reconciled? 

For we loved him and we miss him, 
And our loss we must deplore, 

But we hope to meet our darling 
Over on the other shore. 


80 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. LAURA WHITMARSH. 

Over the river, an angel child 

Sighed for its mother, here on earth, 

E’en though the ties that bound their hearts 
Seemed severed by death, at the hour of birth. 

This side of the river, another child 
Claimed of its mother’s love, a share, 

Little Mellie, the cherished child 

Of a father’s love and a mother’s care. 

Over the river the angel child, 

Happy and bright in the summer land, 

Still longed for a kiss from a mother’s lips, 

One sweet caress from a mother’s hand. 

Years passed, and another tiny form 
Was laid away in the earth to rest. 

It never gazed on its mother’s face, 

Never was clasped to its mother’s breast. 

And the angel brought this baby boy 
To his angel sister in realms of light, 

His face illumined with radiance fair, 

His little form clad in vesture bright. 

But the sister said in a quivering voice, 

“Angel, dear angel, tell me, pray, 

Where is our mother ? Why came she not 
Forevermore with her babes to stay?” 

Then back came the angel to earthly scenes, 

To the mother with suffering so distressed. 

He whispered, “Thy children wait for thee, 

Come thou with me to the land of rest.” 


81 


“Must. I leave my Mellie, my darling one, 

And my husband true, must I leave them here? 
And the angel whispered, “Tis better thus; 

Come thou with me and do not fear !” 

“Dear little Mellie,” her last thought was 
As her spirit neared the river side. 

And she passed away from the scenes of earth, 
At an early hour of the eventide. 

And with floral offerings, snowy white, 

Entwined with purple, in letters plain, 

Her mourning loved ones these words inscribed 
With aching hearts, “Our loss—her gain.” 

“Husband,” her spirit voice entreats : 

“Do not grieve that I passed away ! 

Here on the other side I wait 

For you and Mellie to come some day. 

Only a little while you know, 

Though the years seem long, in your sad unrest 
And we all shall meet together here 
To dwell forever among the blest.” 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ABIGAIL BROWN. 

January, 1880. 

Closed the eyes in endless slumber, 

Ceased at last the feeble breath. 

One of your beloved number 
Lies before you, cold in death. 

Thirteen years so long and weary 
She has suffered. Life at best 



Was a journey, dark and dreary, 

She must welcome Heaven’s rest. 

Aged husband, do not mourn her, 

She has passed from earthly strife. 

Holy angels now have borne her 
To a higher, better life. 

Children, she, with love maternal, 

Watched o’er you through childhood's years, 

With that love, from realms supernal, 

Now she bids you dry your tears. 

Live, so that you all may meet her 
On the bright celestial shore. 

There an angel bright, to greet her, 

And abide for evermore. 


ON THE DEATH OF WIEUE BATES. 

Inscribed to Mrs. Geo. O. Jenkins. 

In years gone by, when Death came in among us, 
He came in sable robes. With blighting breath 
He robbed us of our dear loved household trea¬ 
sures, 

And how we feared and how we dreaded Death ! 

With hearts bowed down by sorrow, pain and an¬ 
guish, 

A weeping willow symbolized our grief. 

We felt that life could give no compensation, 

And Faith alone could give our hearts relief. 

S3 



But now how changed ! That once much dreaded 
monster, 

Appears in robes of pure celestial light. 

He comes a tender messenger of mercy, 

Our earth and Heaven more closely to unite. 

Faith in acknowledged weakness bows before him, 
And heaven-born Knowledge more than fills her 
place. 

And by her light we realize a blessing, 

Where once affliction only we could trace. 

Friends! from your home a mortal form has 
vanished, 

Been folded in the arms of mother earth, 

While all that gave that form its life and beauty 
In other realms has found immortal birth. 

The change is great, oh, sad heart-stricken sister ! 

Bereft of all, whom once you held so dear, 

Yet they, who many years your footsteps guided, 
Do not forget you in the heavenly sphere. 

And he, who shared with you their love and kind¬ 
ness, 

Is with them now. His soul’s intrinsic worth 
Will find fruition in the land of progress, 

And shed sweet radiance o’er your life on earth. 

A fine young man, of more than usual merit, 

He won a favored place with those he knew. 

We miss the genial face—the smile of welcome— 
And can most truly sympathize with you. 


84 


Yet may that loving brother, watchful, tender, 

Oft make you feel his nearness to your side. 
Still as of yore may he be your companion, 

And give you welcome, when you cross the tide. 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JENNIE WEST. 

March, 1881. 

The angel messenger, calm and still, 

Hath entered your peaceful dwelling, 

Came suddenly, as he ever comes, 

Though disease has been long foretelling, 

He hath laid his hand on a dear loved one, 

And the sad death-knell hath spoken. 

One flower is plucked from the fireside wreath, 

One string of the home lyre broken. 

With tear-wet eyes and swelling heart, 

Deep wrung by this great affliction, 

You have bid adieu to the dear loved form, 

To the idol of your affection. 

The vacant chair tells a story sad, 

And the walls repeat it o’er; 

She has gone ! she has gone from her home and 
friends ! 

She has gone forever more ! 

But list! when your soul is dark and sad, 

And your eyes are red with weeping, 

While it seems to you that the one you mourn 
In the cold dark grave is sleeping, 


85 



There’s a holy influence, calm and sweet, 

To your spirit sad appealing, 

And the voice you love, grown sweeter now, 
To your spirit-ear is stealing. 

u Weep not my husband, and children dear, 
Nor let the world deceive you ; 

For now, as ever, I dwell with ;you, 

Let this assurance relieve you. 

My hands, as ever, will try to smoothe 
The path of your life so drear. 

And by-and-bye, for our God is good, 

You will surely meet me here.” 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARY POOLE. 

Sept. 14, 1881. 

We have laid away, in the cold dark grave, 
Our grandmother’s form so dear, 

But we know that her spirit, freed from earth, 
Still lives in a brighter sphere. 

She has passed from the body, bent with age 
And tortured by years of pain, 

And now in the spiritual body fair 
Her youth she renews again. 

The poor dim eyes are closed for aye, 

But the spirit eyes are bright. 

And the dear loved voice, so weak while here, 
Is strong, in the land of light. 


86 



She worked for humanity while here, 

And her mission is not yet done, 

For she will see, in the higher life, 

That her work had just begun. 

She has fought the good fight, she has kept the 
faith, 

And though she has passed from earth, 

She will live in our memory, ever dear, 

Till we have a heavenly birth. 


ON THE DEATH OF WALLACE POOLE. 

Feb. 7th, 1883. 

Death on his sad and never-ceasing mission 
Has passed within our gates, and borne away 
One of our loved ones to the realms elysian, 
Leaving us nothing but the lifeless clay. 

There lies the form we loved, but ah ! how rigid ! 

Those eyes are void of sweet expression now. 
The hands upon his breast lie white and frigid, 
And cold as marble is the pallid brow. 

The last sad rites are o’er. Earth claims her own. 

Heaven’s laws are fixed, immutable and just, 
And like bereavements come to every one, 

For ’tis our lot to die, and die we must. 

But if the body’s slow disintegration 
The sole fulfillment be of life’s career, 

Then would Death’s sting know no alleviation, 
And all our fondest hopes be centred here. 



There is a God, all-knowing and all-seeing, 

Of whom our own existence is a part. 

He gives the life unto our spirit’s being, 

And inward consciousness to guide the heart. 

That spirit lives for aye. It cannot perish. 

Eternity its heritage must be. 

Departed friends whom we have known to cherish, 
Sooner or later we shall surely see. 

Though passed without the range of mortal vision, 
We feel our loved one often will be near, 

And when we, too, have passed through death’s 
transition, 

We shall behold him in a brighter sphere. 


ON THE DEATH OF IDA M. PERRY. 

Oct. 15, 1883. 

She has gone ! 

The fair young mother, the loving wife, 

The faithful daughter to a higher life, 

No warm blood flows through the lifeless breast, 
The form, that we loved, is now at rest. 

But out of that body which Nature gave 
There rises a spirit, born of God. 

We must lay her body within the grave, 

But her spirit lies not beneath the sod. 

There are others, 

Who passed from the earth-life years ago, 


88 



Who greet her now on the other shore. 

Clad in bright raiment, pure as snow 
Are the loved and lost, who have gone before. 

With loving kindness they grasp her hand, 

They give their sister a welcome kiss, 

Love’s ties are stronger in that bright land, 

For all is love in that world of bliss. 

Weep not then, 

Oh, parents, bereft of a daughter dear ! 

Oh, husband, deprived of a loving wife ! 

She has found a home in a higher sphere, 

She is happy now in her spirit life. 

She will watch o’er you and her brother true, 

She will light your lives when earth’s light is 
dim. 

She will guide and direct her children, too, 

Till the Holy Spirit calls them to Him. 


LINES INSCRIBED TO MR. AND MRS. GEORGE SHAW 
OF ABINGTON ON THE DEATH OF 
THEIR LITTLE SON. 

May, 1885. 

Four years ago, when the spring-time 
Was crowning anew the earth, 

And myriads of nature’s beauties 
Were springing into birth, 

There came to your home a treasure, 

A dear little bright-eyed boy, 

Filling your hearts with pleasure, 

With gratitude, love and joy. 


89 



And the weeks sped swiftly onward, 
And the months grew into years, 

And he twined him in your affections 
By all that the heart endears. 

How pleased you felt, you remember, 
When first he began to walk, 

And the little childish accents 
Lisped forth in baby talk. 

But now the house is silent! 

Those little pattering feet 
No more run to greet his father. 

The voice, with music sweet, 

No more bids him merry welcome, 

To the mother’s listening ear, 

Comes no longer the voice, repeating 
The verses, she loved to hear. 

For Death has entered the household, 
The form you loved is but clay, 

“And the spirit so dear has left us 
For the land that is far away. 

Never more shall we have him with us, 
To fill our hearts with bliss; 

Never more hear his morning greeting, 
Never more feel his good-night kiss.” 

These are your thoughts. But listen ! 

Oh, father and mother sad ! 

He has not departed from you. 

Your bright, merry-hearted lad 
Comes still, when the morning sunlight 


90 


Enters your lonely room, 

Comes still, when the evening shadows 
Wrap earth, like yourselves in gloom. 

For bright-robed angels met him 

When he passed from your mortal sight, 
And clad him in heavenly raiment, 

In robes of beauty and light, 

And now, in their loving kindness, 

They bring him oft to your side, 

With the hope you will feel his presence, 
And know that lie has not died. 

He will grow in that world of spirits, 

His wondrous powers will expand, 

For eternal love and progression 
Are law in the spirit land. 

But he will not forget his parents, 

And, in the years to come, 

By his kind, loving ministrations, 

Will brighten your earthly home. 

Then mourn him not as departed, 

And think of him not as dead. 

The pencil and paper he called for 
Ere the soul from the body fled, 

He may call for again in your dwelling 
His spirit fingers may trace 
A message of love and comfort, 

From his abiding place. 


91 


ON THE DEATH OF MRS. SUSAN JENKINS. 

Nov. 12, 1885. 

Silently, with scarce a note of warning, 

The white-robed messenger from Heaven came— 
Came in the early gray November morning, 

To take the spirit from its mortal frame. 

No struggle fierce accompanied the transition. 

A sudden pain, a feeble gasp for breath, 

And she had passed away from mortal vision, 

And ye beheld the handiwork of Death ! 

He, whom she chose to share life’s pains and 
pleasures, 

Passed to the spirit land long years ago, 

Left in her hands the care of five young treasures, 
Such care as loving parents only know. 

Hard was her lot, but bravely did she bear it. 

Her own inherent energy and will, 

Assisted by that loved one still, in spirit, 

Guided them safely up life’s rugged hill. 

Then, in their turn, in kindly recognition 

Of all that she had suffered for their sake, 

They decked her pathway to the realms elysian 

With all the comforts earth]v hands can make. 

•> 

Her earthly life is ended, but her labors 
Given unsparingly for those she loved. 

Bestowed with generous hand on friends and neigh¬ 
bors. 

Will be continued in the world above. 


From that bright world, where hardship and priva¬ 
tion 

Have no abiding place, her spirit, free, 

Can bring your aching hearts sweet consolation, 

To help you bear your burdens cheerfully. 


LITTLE HANDS HAVE RENT THE VEIL. 

Inscribed to Mrs. Alice Crocker. 

I had heard of a beautiful city, 

The city some call “Over There.” 

They told me of pure, white-robed angels, 

They told of the mansions, so fair. 

They painted a beautiful picture 

Of the Heaven far above the blue skies, 

But somehow my mind failed to grasp it, 

A veil seemed to cover my eyes. 

But the death-angel came to my dwelling, 

And beckoned my dear little boy. 

In vain did I struggle to hold him 

Whose presence our home filled with joy. 

He knew he was going—my treasure— 

And whispered in sweet words of love. 

Then his spirit went out. Ah me ! Whither? 
To that far-away home up above? 

The thought was to me agonizing. 

I could not believe it was so. 

He loved us, his parents and sisters ; 



He would not be happy, to go 
To the loveliest city e’er dreamed of, 

Unless he could come now and then, 

To tell us what he was enjoying, 

And see our loved faces again. 

But lo ! in the grief-shadowed silence, 

My heart, with its sorrow benumbed, 

Was suddenly filled with new life. Yea, 
The grief, to which I had succumbed, 

Was checked. The dark curtain was lifted. 

Enraptured, I spoke not a word. 

Once more my own darling was with me, 

I knew , though I saw not, nor heard. 

I felt the sweet joy of his presence, 

I sensed the light touch of his hand, 

As he laid it caressingly on me, 

And made me at once understand 
That he had not gone on a journey, 

No more to his home to return. 

He knew we would miss him so sorely, 

He knew how our sad hearts would yearn. 

To hear of that Home of the Spirit, 

And, now that the veil is removed, 

I know that he often is with me, 

Oh, thrice-blessed truth ! He has proved 
That the spirit world lies close about us, 
Though it stretches far out into space, 

And we can hold sweetest communion, 

With friends in that happier place. 


94 


He will go with his kind spirit teachers 
To scenes that are radiantly bright. 

He will learn the sweet truths there unfolded, 
He will grow in that city of light. 

But he often will visit his earth friends, 

And help smoothe our pathway while here ; 
And we may be permitted to see him, 

At times, when his spirit is near. 


A TRIBUTE TO THE FOREFATHERS. 

Dec. 22, 1892. 

Once more old Time, on his fast-hying steed, 
H as brought the anniversary of the birth, 
’Midst hardships and privations, great indeed, 
Of this, the mightiest nation of the earth. 

Oh ye, who dared those perils, dark and deep, 
Our brave forefathers and foremothers, too, 
This day with veneration, do we keep, 

And sing our annual song of praise to you ! 


Ye little thought, upon that wintry day, 

When your frail bark, by hearts of courage 
man ned, 

Cleaved the cold waters of old Plymouth Bay, 

And gave you entrance to a stranger land, 


95 



Whate’er might be the outcome of your zeal ! 

What grand results would crown your martyr¬ 
dom ! 

What blessings would the unborn millions feel, 
Grown out from this, their old primeval home ! 


But guided by a purpose firm and true, 

Of love to God, and liberty of man 
To worship, as his conscience bade him do, 
Ye laid the basis of our freedom grand. 


Ye toiled and suffered, but the power was yours 
That nerves the hero’s arm with conquering 
might, 

And ultimately victory secures, 

The mighty power of justice, truth and right. 

With the vast army of arisen souls, 

Whose bodies long since mingled with the dust, 

Is it your privilege to now behold 

The outcome of your labors and your trust? 

We may not know. But, on the wings of love 
We fain would send a sweet Thanksgiving song, 

To blend in harmony with notes above, 

And catch the echoes from the heavenly throng! 


“BEAUTIFUL SNOW.” 


Poets have sung in praise of thee, 
Beautiful Snow ! but it seems to me, 

All the comfort that I receive 
From your coming, is when you leave. 
Borne on the north-east gale, you make 
Every bone in my body shake. 

E’en when descending, soft and still, 

My very musings you seem to chill. 


It will do for your friends to talk, 

Who do not have to clear a walk 
From back door, front door, out to the street. 
And round the clothes-line a hundred feet. 
And then, with weary, snow-clogged steps, 
Walk three miles in your drifted depths, 
With chilblains biting at every toe, 
Beautiful Snow ! Beautiful Snow ! 


“Beautiful Snow,’’ the young man sings, 
As into the sleigh he lightly springs, 
With his loved one at eventide, 

Over the polished track to glide. 

Very soon, although warmly dressed, 

He finds the wind is about north-west, 
Hands, benumbed with the icy cold, 
Almost refuse the reins to hold. 


97 


When he rides in the balmy June, 

He loves to gaze on the stars and moon, 
Inspiring him, with their magic power 
To sweet love phrases, for many an hour. 
Now, though the stars may brightly twinkle, 
In his forehead, a frozen wrinkle 
Tells of the struggle within his brain 
To keep his tongue from being profane. 


Beautiful Snow ! In thy purity 
We give the praise that is due to thee. 

But thy whiteness, of matchless worth, 

Soils in contact with dusty earth. 

Soon the track of the horses’ feet 
Gives thee a mud-hue in the street. 

The ermine robe, that o’erspreads the fields, 
Soon to a dingy garment yields. 


When our Edison finds a way, 

When you get here, to make you stay 
Through the winter, as white and clean 
As when vour first few flakes are seen ; 
Gets an electric patent out 
To shovel the paths our homes about; 
Finds a method that will not fail 
To take the cars o’er the snowy rail; 
Then, perhaps, we’ll be glad to sing, 
“Beautiful Snow !’’ from Fall to Spring ! 


INTUITION. 


Whenever a new or strange idea 

Comes to the human mind, 

And finds expression through human lips, 

It is alwavs sure to find 
*/ 

Strong opposition on every side, 

And often from men called wise, 

But who are so shrouded in self-esteem 
That it darkens both their eyes. 


The ignoramus may scoff' and sneer, 

It troubles us not a whit. 

The common-place man show unbelief, 
But to judge he is quite unfit. 

But when the scientist, grave and wise 
Derisively treats our theme, 

Tells us it is visionary, wild, 

And worse than a foolish dream, 


It is not always we feel prepared 
His arguments strong to meet, 

And our silence, seeming to acquiesce, 

He glories in our defeat. 

But deeper down in the mind, than he 
H as probed, has the truth laid hold, 

And will rise again, with acquired strength, 
And speak out in accents bold. 


> * 

> > > 


99 


For truth will live, though a thousand blows 
Be rained on its naked head, 

And crushed and bleeding, it vanquished seems, 
It is stunned but it is not dead. 

And the wisest heads that ever lived 
Were but babes in Wisdom’s school, 

And the learned man of yesterday 
May be called tomorrow’s fool. 


We bow to Reason, whose wondrous power 
Such a light to earth has proved, 

But we must acknowledge a subtler force 
By which there are many moved. 

Yes, Intuition ! supreme you stand 
In unfolding truths to man, 

Like the lightning flash. We see—we know— 
But the idea deep and grand, 


May seem insusceptible to proof, 

In our limited scope of speech, 

And Reason, unless we can demonstrate, 

Will reject the truths you teach. 

Still we invite them, and, “Light! more light !’* 
Shall be our constant cry, 

And wefll ever welcome the living truth 
And rejoice that the false must die. 


100 


) 


EARTH’S APPEAL AND HEAVEN’S ANSWER. 


Come back to me, my loved one ! Let me feel 
Thy hand’s soft touch 

Upon my forehead, soothing, kind, for oh ! 

I suffer much. 

It is so hard to climb life’s rugged hill, 

Unhelped, alone. 

My limbs grow weary, and my tired feet 
Strike many a stone. 

The sun has lost its brightness and its warmth 
Since thou hast left, 

And all things that were cheerful, seem to say, 
“Thou art bereft.” 

Thou sharer of my sorrows and my joys, 

I miss thee so, 

Why couldst thou not have stayed with me, until 
I, too, could go ? 


*********** 


Last night I had a vision. Call it not 
A vivid dream, 

Though dreams be oft as real experiences 
As what they seem. 

But slumber had not touched my eyelids, when 
Before me stood. 


101 


He whom I mourned as lost. He spoke to me, 

Just as he would, 

Had he been living in the mortal form. 

Upon my head 

He laid his hand. ’Twas not the cold, chill touch 
Of fingers dead, 

But soft, caressing, filling my sad heart 
With life anew, 

The while his words brought consolation, hope 
And courage, too. 

And now I know, what once I scarce believed, 

He can come near, 

And help me bear life’s many burdens, while 
I linger here. 

Thank God for this! Oh, ministering angels, 
thanks ! 

My grateful heart 

Shall through my lips proclaim the truth. Our 
dead 

Do not depart 

To some far city, never to return. 

They often come 

To aid, to comfort us, till we, too, reach 
That brighter home. 


10*2 


TWO WRONGS NEVER MAKE A RIGHT. 

To conquer the works of evil 
As on through the world we go, 

The power of love is the strongest, 
Albeit it worketh slow. 

Don’t think with the Devil’s weapons 
’Tis best the Arch-fiend to fight, 
Remember, in every instance, 

Two wrongs never make a right. 

“Be not overcome with evil, 

But overcome evil with good.’’ 

And always “do unto others,” 

We read, “whatsoever ye would 
Have them do to you.’’ These precepts 
Have power if they’re used aright. 
“An eye for an eye” is revengeful, 

Two wrongs never make a right. 

The words of those holv teachers— 

«/ 

Confucius, Buddha and Christ, 

Show love as a mighty power 
For conquering sin and vice. 

Let us profit by their instruction, 

And, guided by Truth’s bright light, 
Show plainly to all around us, 

Two wrongs never make a right. 


103 


IN MEMORY OF. MRS. E. L. CURRIER, OF 

HAVERHILL. 

We say, with saddened hearts, that she has left us 
Left earth’s surroundings, for a higher sphere, 

Yet while we speak, an influence familiar 
Makes us to feel that still our friend is here. 

Dead, yet not dead ! Gone ! yet still present with us 
A paradox of words, and yet how true ! 

Death is but change of form. The earthly body, 
Though dear to us we can no longer view. 

But she, our friend, has left it. Could we keep it, 
That rigid form from natural decay, 

Our hearts would feel no joy, no satisfaction, 

In the possession of the lifeless clay. 

But, though removed from out the earthly temple, 
Her spirit will not wish to fly away 

To realms remote, forgetful of her earth-friends, 
With whom in mortal form she loved to stay. 

A noble worker in the fields of progress, 

To lift humanity from error’s night, 

Undaunted by the shafts of spite and malice, 
Unflinchingly she stood for truth and right. 

Fraud, with its brazen face had cause to fear her, 
Who ever labored for the good and true ; 

And oily-tongued Hypocrisy oft trembled, 

Lest she should bring his hidden sins to view. 

104 


As in the mortal form, so now in spirit 
To bless humanity will be her aim ; 

To labor for the truth, because she loves it, 
And not for idle praise, or empty fame. 


EMANCIPATED. 

Inscribed to E. A. Titus. 

What pictures come to my mind to-day, 
Recalling, as Memory can, 

The panorama of shifting scenes, 

As I grew from child to man. 

In spiritual darkness sat my soul, 

By doctrine and dogma bound, 

Nor caught from the “world of harmony” 
One single inspiring sound. 

If haply, a ray of heavenly light 
Glanced into my darkened room, 

The curtains were only tighter drawn, 
’Twere sin to dispel the gloom. 

For “blessed are they that have not seen, 
And yet have believed,’’ they said, 

And so I lived upon mouldy myths, 
Rejecting the living bread. 

At length, there darted across my path 
A gleam from the star of hope, 

And darkness developed discontent. 

No more was I pleased to grope 
In the gloom of ignorance, knowing well 


105 



That others walked in the light, 

So I prayed to God for deliverance, 

From the shade of error’s night. 

And, God be praised ! from that very hour 
The gloom was slowly dispelled. 

My spirit soared to greater heights 
By heavenly aid upheld. 

Through the misty veil of a broadened faith 
I could dimly see the light, 

Till the holy angels rent the veil, 

And knowledge gave clearer sight. 

No longer “Credo’’ shall be my cry, 

But “Nosco” shall be my song, 

And daily, thanks from my heart shall rise 
To the blessed spirit throng. 

Would all could know of this blessed truth: 
They live who have gone^before. 

They love, encourage and help us on 
Till we reach the “evergreen shore.’’ 


A VISION. 

All the last sad rites were over. 

She, who was my love, my life, 
Slept within the lonely graveyard, 
Never more to wake—my wife ! 
Back unto my lonely dwelling 
With my little child I went, 

Home ! Ah, surely home no longer ! 
Oh ! how could I be content 



To remain within that cottage, 

Even for a single day, 

Now that she, who made it heaven, 

Had been rudely snatched away? 
Sweet mementoes of her labors, 

As I went from room to room, 

Only served to wrap my spirit 
In a shroud of deepest gloom. 

Back at last into the parlor, 

Where her loved form last had lain, 
Down I sat in grief and anguish, 
Weeping tears of bitter pain, 

And my loving little daughter 
Climbed upon her father’s knee, 

Only faintly realizing 

This great loss to her and me. 

Sitting there, the fading twilight 
Vanished into evening’s gloom. 
Suddenly the door was opened, 

And a soft light filled the room. 
Gliding through the open doorway, 
Swiftly she approached my chair ! 

She—my wife ! Could I be dreaming? 
What did I see, standing there? 

Was it some illusive fancv? 

«/ 

Had my trouble turned my brain? 
Then my child’s voice broke the silence, 
“Papa, Mamma’s come again.” 

Then I seemed to hear a whisper— 


107 


“Husband, do not weep for me. 

I shall oft be near to help you, 

Though you may not always see. 

Teach our child not to forget me. 

Tell her, that her mother dear, 

Still will help her, still instruct her, 
Though unseen will still be near. 
Heaven bless you both.’’ She vanished. 

“Papa, Mamma’s gone away,” 

Said my child. It was no dream then, 
“Won’t she come again to stay?” 

Some may say imagination 

Made things thus to me appear. 
Heaven bless imagination ! 

That can dry the mourner’s tear. 
Thank God for imagination 
That can check the orphan’s grief ! 
Giving us, in our affliction, 

Consolation and relief. 


A BIRTHDAY VISITOR. 

To George A. Fuller. Aug. 5, 1893. 

I welcome here to my home to-day 
A dear old friend, who has come to stay, 
A quiet and unobtrusive guest, 

Who brings an influence, pure and blest. 


108 



I well remember when first we met 
So unexpectedly, dear Planchette ! 

And never forget to bless the hour, 

When first you showed me the subtle power, 

That works communion between the sphere 
Of life beyond and existence here ; 

That shows how beautiful is this death, 

That opes the door, when the feeble breath 

No longer binds to the wasted frame 
The struggling spirit; that makes our aim 
A nobler one in this world of strife 
And leads our thoughts, to a better life. 

And as I gaze upon thee, old friend, 

Back into the past my musings tend, 

To her who is still your friend and mine, 

Our risen friend, Mrs. Valentine. 


I feel as if she were drawing near. 

Ah, yes ! I know she is with us here ! 

And she speaks of another, here on earth, 
Whose interest kind in me, gave birth 

To a keen desire, in my early youth, 

To learn, to know of the blessed truth, 

That has proved a light to my longing mind, 
And helped me the peace of heaven to find. 


105 ) 


Oh, risen sister ! * oh, earth friend true ! * 
Oh, friend Planchette ! I must say to you, 
That ye are a glorious trinity 
That brought this beautiful truth to me ! 

* Mrs. E- D. Valentine. 

* Mrs. Iy. S. Dewing. 


TO MRS. EDITH R. NICKEESS. 

Oh, noble worker in Progression’s held ! 

Press on, though obstacles may block thy path, 
Though heavy clouds, above thy head, may yield 
Fierce storms of malice, jealousy and wrath. 

Thine is the mission to uplift the race 

From out the slouch of selfishness and sin ; 

To show thy sister woman her true place, 

And man, where reformation should begin. 

Thy words, well chosen by celestial guides, 

Though oftentimes they fall on barren soil, 

Shall yet take root, and, more than all besides, 

Shall bless thee for thv kind unselfish toil. 

%/ 

Then fear not, though the struggle may be fierce, 
And foes press madly round, and friends betray. 
No gloom so dense, but Heaven’s light can pierce 
And change the darkest night to brightest day. 


no 



AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 

The leaves all radiant with autumnal beauty 
Will soon drift withered on the ground below. 
Thus, oft we think, our acts of love and duty 
Have drifted to the boundless long-ago. 

But as the leaves, in all their glowing splendor, 
Have gladdened many a beauty-loving eye. 

So have our acts of love and mercy tender 
Brought joy to many a soul in misery. 

All through our lives unconsciously we’re rearing 
A massive structure that is called the Past. 

Our actions, whether good or bad, appearing 
Upon its walls, engraven there to last. 

Shall we not then improve the moment present ? 

Make each day’s work a noble work of love? 
Make some heart glad, some sufferer’s path more 
pleasant, 

Invoking aid from heavenly friends above? 


TO MY RISEN FRIEND— WIULIAM KENDAUU. 

“From the substance to the shadow,” 

That is what we used to say, 

When Death entered in our household. 
Bearing loving friends away. 

“From the semblance to the real,” 

That is what we know to-day, 

When the spirit leaves a body 
That must very soon decay. 

ill 



Oh, the comfort of this knowledge 
That surpasses all belief ! 

Oh, the blessed realization 
That so mitigates our grief! 

Death is robbed of all its terrors, 

And the grave can fright no more. 

’Tis no tomb to which we journey. 

’Tis the blessed “shining shore.” 

Thou, oh, loved one, gone before us ! 

Make us to more fully know 
Of the life, which thou hast entered, 

Unto which we all must go. 

May we realize thy presence 
Often with us here on earth, 

And be thou the first to greet us 

When we pass through heavenly birth ! 


WORDS OF WELCOME. 

Read before the Whitman Spiritualist Mutual Improvement Society 

Dec. 26, 1893. 

A society for mutual improvement 

We bid you all thrice welcome here, to-night. 

We trust that, by your kind co-operation, 

We shall succeed in shedding forth the light 

Of Spiritualism, pure and simple, 

The binding link ’twixt Nature’s soul and ours; 
I11 bringing out the good there is within us, 

And cultivating undeveloped powers. 



Not to increase in numbers is our mission, 
Though every honest heart shall welcome find. 

Our truth is one that courts investigation, 

And welcomes every true inquiring mind. 

We hope, by constant and united effort, 

To prove unto the doubting world around, 

By purity in all our words and actions, 

That we the key to happiness have found. 

Our God is spirit, and, in Scriptural language, 
We ‘‘worship Him in spirit and in truth.’’ 

So would not show our fervor and devotion 
By empty ceremonials forsooth. 

By virtuous lives, we seek the ideal manhood, 
And cultivate the germ of God within. 

So let us prove the truth of this assertion, 

True Spiritualism has no place for sin. 

/ 

So do we welcome all who wish to join us 
For self-improvement, for in this, we find 

The stepping-stone to something grander, higher, 
The reaching out to benefit mankind. 

To cheer the mourner, to uplift the fallen, 

To comfort those by many cares oppressed ; 

To strive to lighten one another’s burdens, 

And prove that living right is living best. 


113 


A FLORAL TRIBUTE 


Inscribed to Mrs. K. A. Titus. 

A wreath of roses, my mother dear, 

I place on your head to-night, 

My favorite blossoms here on earth, 

The red, the pink and the white. 

The beautiful red rose, typical 
To me, of constancy, 

Of steadfastness to a purpose true, 

Dear mother, belongs to thee. 

Her fragrant sister, the sweet pink rose, 
Fidelity’s emblem true, 

Tome most touchingly represents 
A part of your nature, too. 

But sweeter, fairer than aught beside 
That I in this wreath could twine, 

Is the snow-white rose of purity, 

And mother, that rose is thine. 

Fidelity, Constancy, Purity ! 

These are a beautiful three. 

And mother, this glorious trinity 
Expression has found in thee ! 

And so, symbolic of these ideas, 

I bring these flowers, and say, 

That I have their language interpreted 
In my own peculiar wav.. 


114 


Oh, loving father ! oh, mother dear ! 
Does not death lose its horror 

When she, whose body you laid away 
Deturns the self-same Laura? 

Not wilful, father, as in the past, 

Or stubborn, as some might term me, 

But true to my own convictions still, 

I cling to them just as firmly. 

The benediction of love divine, 

My parents, I leave upon you. 

May the golden sunlight of perfect love 
E’er shine around and on you. 

To sister dear, and brother, too, 

I bring a loving greeting. 

Tell them earth-parting is the bud 
That blooms, a heavenly meeting. 


ANNIVERSARY POEM. 

Mar. 31st, 1894. 

’Twas on the thirty-first of March, 
In eighteen-forty-eight, 

The spirit-cable, newly laid, 

And in imperfect state, 

But yet, improved from olden lines, 
Gave forth the potent sound, 

The little rap, whose import vast 
Has reached the earth around. 

Those tiny raps ! The alphabet 
Of language infinite ! 


115 



The germ of possibilities 
Unknown, indefinite ! 

Like pebbles, in the ocean cast, 

Their widening circles spread, 

Still reaching farther, farther towards 
The glorious Fountain-head ! 

Was Science pleased, when Nature thus 
Gave her a broader field, 

Unlocked for her a storehouse vast, 

And priceless gems revealed? 

Nay. Her conceited votaries 

Looked on with threatening frown, 

And said, “Tis superstition’s work, 

And we must put it down !” 

What said Religion, groping on 
In darkness, like the night, 

When little children oped the door, 
Admitting heavenly light? 

Now was the prophecy fulfilled, 

U A little child shall lead.’' 

Once more the angels sang of peace, 

Did so-called Christians heed ? 

Ah no ! for they with thoughts, not raised 
Above the bigot’s level, 

Attributed these heavenlv sounds 
To toe-joints and the devil. 

Oh, mystic joints ! Oh, devil abused ! 


What comfort ye have given 
In leading souls from dark despair 
Into the light of heaven ! 

The years but number forty-six 
Since first those raps were heard, 

And yet, in that brief period 
The whole world has been stirred 
From Hydesville’s humble village small 
To far Australia’s shore, 

Those tiny raps reverberate, 

An earthquake’s mighty roar ! 

And to this truth, divinely sent, 

Shall we in homage bow? 

Nay. Truth no flattering worship craves, 
But bids us, here and now, 

Show to the world,by morals pure 
And daily acts of love 
That we enjoy companionship 
With spirits from above. 

So let us sing, till every heart 
Shall with the music thrill, 

The old-time song of “Peace on earth 
And unto man good-will!” 

And angels from the higher spheres 
Will swell the glad refrain, 

Till all mankind shall feel and know 
That Christ is born again ! 


MOTHER-LOVE. 


There’s a poem unwritten, a song unsung, 

A picture, as yet, unpainted. 

The marble lies waiting the sculptor’s hand 
To carve out the subject sainted. 

For never has chisel, pen or brush, 

Though guided by powers above. 

Been able to faithfully portray 
The beauty of mother-love. 

Then why should I, with my feeble power, 
Attempt the gigantic task, 

That genius has ever failed to do? 

I wonder not that you ask, 

Yet e’en though failure must stamp my work, 
Like that of many another, 

My soul to testify still will yearn, 

For I have a loving mother! 


LINES TO MR. AND MRS. P. M. LEAVITT 

On the Fiftieth Anniversary of their marriage, July 4, 1894 

Looking forward fifty years, 

Half a century, 

Limitless, almost, in time 
It appears to be. 

So much time for pleasure sweet! 

So much time for rest! 

How becomingly the future 
Unto youth is dressed ! 


118 



Looking backward fifty years, 

How the mind takes fiight! 
Scenes of fifty years ago 
Seem as fresh and bright, 

As of yesterday’s occurrence. 

Memory’s wondrous power, 

Time and space annihilating, 
Makes the present hour 

Like a panoramic scroll, 

Swiftly changing views 
Crowd upon the mental sight, 

Till we seem to lose 
Consciousness of present time, 

W hile the checkered past 
Wakens reminiscences 
Of its treasures vast. 

By imagination led, 

We, whose years are fewer, 

With our hostess may go back 
And a maiden view her. 
Generous, impulsive, kind, 

Loved by all around her, 
Knowing not the magic spell 
Till young Peter found her. 

He, a gay and sprightly lad, 

Youth and beauty fancies, 

But escapes heart-whole each time, 
Till he meets with Frances. 


119 


Love’s sweet measure now is full 
As he could expect, 

For his cup of happiness 
Proves to hold a Peck ! 

Ei gh teen-hu n dr ed - f or ty - f ou r 
Saw them, man and wife, 
Starting Independence Day, 

On the sea of Life. 

Love their chart and compass, too, 
Hope their guiding star, 

Home the light-house, pointing out 
Dangerous reef or bar. 

Children came to bless their lot. 

Sons and daughters twelve 
Made their life a busy one. 

He must toil and delve 
For the sustenance of all, 

While, with tireless care, 

Mother, in the little home, 

Does a mother’s share. 

One sweet blossom droops and dies 
From the household band, 

Finds a home with spirits bright 
In the Better Land. 

Others come their path to cheer, 
But they ne’er forget 
Her, who left their circle first, 
Little Angenette ! 


120 


When a fratricidal war 
Started in our land, 

Bold to save the Union then, 

And for freedom stand, 

Lo ! our brother Leavitt goes, 

Ready volunteer, 

And his two sons, Charles and Ben, 
In the ranks appear. 


Where are they—those soldier boys? 

Safe from pain and strife. 

They have joined the countless hosts 
In another life. 

Yet, with unabated love, 

Present, though unseen, 

They participate with us 
In this jovful scene. 


And the youngest of the boys, 
Meriy-hearted Will, 

Though invisible to us, 

He is with us still. 

Nettie sits on grandpa’s knee, 

Little Inez stands 

Close by grandma’s chair, and holds 
One of grandma’s hands. 


Gathered here to-night, we find 
Generations four, 

Yet good Peter’s eyes beam bright 
As in days of yore, 

Still he entertains the young 
With his stories jolly. 

Greets, as he did years ago, 

Lizzie, with her Dolly.* 


Friends, through all the years agone 
Sorrow oft has come. 

Trouble, soon or late, we know, 

Enters every home. 

Yet have you, with courage true, 
Bravely done your part, 

Cheered with smiles, while bitter grief 
Pierced each loving heart. 


Oh, may earthlife’s later days 
Happily be spent! 

May each one whom you have served 
Strive, with firm intent, 

To make bright life’s evening hours 
On this earthly shore, 

And may angels light your path 
Unto Heaven’s door ! 

* Grandchild and great-grandchild. 


122 


ON MATRIMONY’S SEA. 


Inscribed to Mr. and Mrs. F. H. Carver. Ocl. 1894. 


Another boat is started on its way, 

And who shall mark its course? Who mind the 
helm ? 

Who shall be captain of this little craft? 

Who shall be monarch in this new made realm? 

I need not question, for it matters not, 

True love will settle all such questions now. 

To serve each other—this will be your aim — 

The obligation of your marriage vow. 


Friends, would that I could truly prophesy 
Unclouded skies, and waters calm and clear, 
Throughout the voyage, but alas ! I know 
That such is not the lot of dwellers here. 

But this, my prayer—that all the storms that come 
May gather from without. Love’s sunshine bright 
Will then dispel the heaviest clouds that rise, 

And paint Hope’s rainbow in the darkest night. 

So, guided by the beacon-light of Truth, 

Oh ! may your bark in safety reach that shore 
Whence angels often come to friends on earth, 

And give them greeting when earth-life is o’er ! 


123 


TO MY RISEN MOTHER, ERIZA A. POORE. 

Nov. 3rd. 1894. 

Within the cold damp earth to-day 
They lay my mother’s form away 
To its eternal rest, 

The while her spirit, bright and fair. 
Emancipated from all care, 

With heavenly peace is blessed. 

Hard was the journey, rough the road, 
Which patiently her feet have trod 
To reach the shining shore. 

The loss of friends, who live above, 

Ill health, and unrequited love, 

Of so-called friends, she bore- 

Yet uncomplainingly she wrought 
Her life-work here, and ever sought 
To help each friend and neighbor. 
Forgetful of her load of care, 

Her dear ones’ woes and pains to share 
She made her constant labor. 

Ah, how we miss her ! Every room 
Gives forth an atmosphere of gloom, 
Which nothing seems to lighten. 

Her ministrations kind we miss, 

Her cheerful smile, her loving kiss, 

That served our home to brighten. 


124 


Oh, Mother ! Mother ! this I crave : 
From thy bright home beyond the grave 
Wilt thou return to me? 

Come oft, and take me by the hand, 

And help me to that better land, 

To dwell in bliss with thee ! 


DESPAIR. 

How light seem others’ troubles in comparison 
with ours ! 

Theirs a sprinkle of affliction, ours a pouring down 
in showers ! 

Just a light and filmy shadow,that obscures their 
pleasant skies, 

While a cloud of inky blackness shuts the azure 
from our eyes. 

When my life was bright and happy, I have dried 
the mourner’s tear. 

I have soothed the heart, grief-stricken, with my 
words of hope and cheer. 

I have spoken words of comfort, to my friends, left 
sad and lone, 

But such words have little meaning, in this trouble 
of my own. 

Oh, ’tis easy to acknowledge the wise providence of 
God, 

When we talk unto a neighbor, bowing’neath afflic¬ 
tion’s rod. 


125 



We can see misfortune to be right in other folks’ 
affairs, 

But we question right and justice, when our back 
the burden bears. 

Teachers tell of heavenly mansions, and they tell of 
Jesus’ love, 

And the guardianship of angels from the holy realms 
above, 

But that which gave me comfort, with my mother 
by my side, 

Now fails to soothe my anguish since my darling 
mother died. 

Oh ! it may be I was selfish to desire her to re¬ 
main 

In an earthly body tortured with never-ceasing 
pain, 

But I’m desolate, heartbroken, weary of all earthly 
strife, 

Father, take me to my mother, to the blessed higher 
life! 


AFTER THE TRANSITION. 

Inscribed to Sumner A. Smith 

Not lost! not gone ! just laid aside the mortal, 
Just stepped outside the tenement of clay, 
And with you now, an active, living presence, 
Still to assist you on your earthly way ! 


126 



Not far away ! Oh no ! but nearer , darling, 

Sensing more fully all your tender care. 

The depth unlimited of your devotion, 

The priceless worth of your affection rare. 

Not gone away ! How could I leave you, husband, 
Or leave my little ones, to me so dear, 

And think of perfect happiness in Heaven, 

Well knowing you were mourning for me here? 

Ah no ! The ties, that bound me to my dear ones, 
Have not been sundered by this sudden change. 

I still shall be permitted to be with you, 

And all my energies have wider range. 

To care for you, to labor for your welfare, 

And try to bring unto your longing heart 

The blessed realization of my presence, 

And though, at times, my spirit may depart, 

I will return, for oh ! my dearly-loved one, 

No gulf impassable divides us now. 

I still can press your hand with true affection 
And place my loving hand upon your brow. 

And, as I gain in knowledge and in power, 

I trust that, from the spirit side of life, 

I may draw back the veil that dims your vision, 
And show myself still near—your loving wife t 


127 


A. MOTHER’S ADVICE. 


My noble boy ! From spirit life 
I come to-day to greet yon ! 

The words I speak are for your good, 

•So listen I entreat you. 

My wish is to improve your mind, 

/And with good thoughts imbue it. 

Some might make light of what I say, 
But Edgar, you won’t do it. 

I wish to speak of what in time 
Might injure you and hurt you. 

And to instil into your mind 
The principles of virtue. 

You would abstain from anything 
That injures, if you knew it. 

At goodness some may laugh and sneer, 
But Edgar, don’t you do it. 

Tobacco first—though some may say 
How much they have enjoyed it, 

l r et ’tis a baneful poison, dear, 

I beg you to avoid it. 

l r es, shun it, boy, in every form, 

And neither smoke nor chew it. 

Some think it smart to smoke cigars, 
But Edgar, don’t you do it. 

And alcoholic liquors next, 

The bane of many a nation, 


128 


That kill the body, steep the soul 
In crime and degradation. 

Resolve you ne’er will taste a drop, 

And once resolved, stick to it. 

Some think no harm to take a glass, 

But Edgar, don’t you do it. 

Don’t have too light ideas of love. 

I know it is the fashion 

For people now to think of love 
As but a beastly passion. 

But love is God’s own attribute, 

And as such we should view it. 

Too many have debased its name, 

But Edgar, don’t yon do it. 

Don’t use profane nor vulgar words, 

’Tis neither smart nor cunning, 

For impure words but form the stream 
To impure actions running. 

Abstain from everything unclean. 

Be sure you ne’er will rue it. 

Some love to smear their tongues with filth, 
But Edgar, don’t you do it. 

Don’t steal, but get whate’er you need 
By patient, honest labor. 

You have no right to take away 

What God has given your neighbor, 

And when a thing is told you, don’t 
Pervert or misconstrue it. 


120 


For telling lies is low and mean, 

So Edgar, don’t you do it. 

Be good, be true, be temperate, 

Be honest in your dealings. 

Do not be guilty of an act 

To wound your mother’s feelings ! 

Be father’s help, be brother’s guide, 

Be sister’s true defender ! 

Remember that the manliest men 
Are gentle, kind and tender. 

If in your youth, you live a life 
That will not fear inspection, 

Your manhood will be bright and fair, 
Without one sad reflection. 

So pure in thought, in word, in deed, 
You’ll earn a home in Heaven, 

Where brighter joys than earth can know 
Will unto you be given. 


GRIEF. 

You tell me in time I shall forget 
The awful anguish that now is mine; 
That, after a time, I shall cease to fret, 

No longer with tears my eyes be wet, 

No more in sadness my heart repine. 

You tell me that earth holds many joys 
That will banish grief to a buried past, 


130 



When ’mid life’s tumult and hurry, and noise, 
New pleasures come, and new thought employs, 
And duties crowd on me thick and fast. 


But I say, if I found that Pleasure’s art 

W as drowning the memory of by-gone years, 
I would clutch at my lacerated heart, 

And sunder the healing bands apart, 

And open anew the font of tears. 


Nay, not in pleasure can peace be found, 

Nor in oblivion seek I rest. 

Ah, no ! The love, with which life was crowned, 
Must evermore in my heart abound, 

The sweetest treasure that I possess. 


There’s one thing only I wish to cheer, 

To lift the load from my burdened heart, 
And that is to know that she is near, 

To feel she is often with me here, 

To share in my earthly life a part. 


Yes, this indeed is the only balm 

You need to offer to soothe my grief. 
The only power that can ever calm 
The sea of anguish, and Death disarm 
And bring to my aching heart relief. 


131 


LIFE’S WINTER. 


Into a wreath I bind them all to-day, 

The gathered leaves that I had stored away. 

The spring has passed. The summer, too, has gone. 
Autumn has vanished. Winter has begun. 

Bright, tinted leaves, when earth seemed bright and 
fair; 

Dark, sombre leaves, when burdened o’er with 
care; 

Dry, withered leaves, when even hope had fled, 
When faith lay crushed and buried with my dead, 
Of these I weave a garland, strange to see, 

But full of potent meaning unto me. 

And often, as it hangs in Memory’s hall, 

My aching heart will vividly recall 

Life’s spring-time joys, and summer, all too brief ! 

And autumn, with its heavy weight of grief. 

And, as Time’s wintry wind doth round me sweep, 
Piling Care’s chilling snow drifts, dense and deep, 
About my heart, and partially benumbs 
The sense of grief, to which my heart succumbs, 

I know that earth can never fill the void 
Made by the loss of those I once enjoyed, 

Whose love made all the pleasure I have known, 
Whose presence made the sunshine of my home. 
And, while my spirit longs to break the bond 
That binds me here, it questions—what beyond? 

Is there continued life beyond the grave 
Where I shall find again the ones I crave? 

Will spring-time greet me there? Shall I then see 


132 


Beautiful verdure upon plain and tree? 

Will hands clasp mine, that held them fondly here? 
And will my eyes behold the faces dear, 

Of those, whose toiling hands and tired feet 
Gave up Life’s work before it seemed complete? 

So let me think ! so let me feel ! for though 
My dearest hopes have perished, and, like snow 
In winter air, I sense the awful chill 
Of Sorrow’s biting breath, it does not kill . 

For me the battle is not ended yet. 

More pain, more sorrow, before death be met. 

Oh may I feel, to guide me and to cheer, 

The influence of those to me so dear, 

And, brightest of affection’s stars above, 

Be still my light, the light of mother’s love ! 


LINES TO MRS. L. S. DEWING. 

Press on, dear friend, wherever duty calls thee 
With courage true ! 

Though disappointment keen at times befalls thee* 
Press on anew ! 

Well hast thou done ! though Sorrow’s searing 
finger 

Upon thy heart 

Has traced its cruel lines, they only linger. 

The pain and smart 

Have been relieved through sympathy for others. 
Thy willing hand 


133 



Has sought to aid thy sisters and thy brothers, 
A purpose grand ! 

Self-sacrifice ! the names of some true martyrs 
Upon thy scroll 

The world has traced, a lesson to impart us, 
But not the whole . 

Nay, thou hast workers for the sad and lowly 
Unknown to fame! 

Oh sister ! on this list, so pure and holy, 

1 place thy name ! 


FRIENDSHIP’S TRIBUTE TO TWO BETROTHED 

DOVERS. 

Oil friends ! rejoicing in the gift 
Of Life’s most-wished-for treasure, 

To whom the future seems disposed 
To give an ample measure 
Of that true happiness, that comes 
With perfect love attended, 

Accept this tribute from a friend 
Whose earthly joys are ended. 

Across your path I would not fling 
A single shade of sadness. 

Ah, no ! I hope that naught will come 
To mar life’s present gladness. 

When the sweet hopes, that fill your heart 
Have reached their consummation, 


134 



Make perfect trust your guiding star 
And Heaven your destination. 

Be proof against all trifling ills 
That often might perplex you. 

Rise up above all petty cares 
And do not let them vex you. 
Remember, ’tis no trouble great 
That makes affection falter, 

But little trials, magnified, 

Sow discord round love’s altar. 

With perfect health and perfect love 

And mutual reliance, 

To all life’s ordinary cares 

Your hearts can bid defiance. 

So may you live through summer days 

And winter’s drearv weather ! 

*/ 

Prosperity and peace be yours 
To meet and share together! 


BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS. 

To Mrs. S. J. Kendall. 

Passed to-day another milestone 
On life’s journey. Is it true 
That a whole long year has vanished 
Since the last one came in view? 


135 



Ah, how quickly time rolls onward ! 
Seasons come and seasons go, 

But they seem to move more quickly 
Than they used to, long ago. 

Long ago ! words too suggestive ! 

Can it be that I am old ? 

True it is, the busy seasons 
Many times away have rolled, 

Since the happy days of childhood, 
Since the days of hopeful youth, 

And so many things remind me 
Of this plain, unpleasant truth. 

Am I old? No wrinkles greet me 
When I seek a mirrored view. 

Still the eyes retain their lustre, 

Silver hairs are very few. 

Nay, I am not old, nor can be, 
Everything the charge refutes— 

While the heart retains its interest 
In life’s every-day pursuits. 

And though future years may show me 
Signs of physical decay, 

Grant, oh spirit friends ! my spirit 
Never shall old age betray. 



+ 


136 


IvONGING. 


The grass is green in the meadow. 
The blossoms bright on the tree. 
All nature is blithe and cheerful, 

But ah ! / can not be ! 

For there’s an unceasing longing, 

A suspense that at times benumbs, 
While I sit watching and waiting 
For one who never comes ! 


The morning sun shines brightly, 
Filling my little room 
With the wealth of its golden splendor, 
While my heart is wrapped in gloom. 
And the bird as he warbles gayly, 

And the bee as he busily hums, 

Both seem to say, “Lament no more, 
For the one who never comes.” 


Heavy the hours drag by. 

Shall I never know true peace ? 

This gnawing pain at my heart. 

Ah, Heaven ! Will it never cease? 
The singing bird cannot charm me, 
And vain shines the morning sun. 
Ah, me ! Am I watching and waiting 
For one who will never come? 

137 


< 


OUR DEAR DEPARTED. 


Our risen friends ! how bitterly we miss {hem, 
Their welcome smile, their words of hopeful 
cheer ! 

The blessed comfort of their earthly presence, 

The light and life of our existence here ! 


Nobly and well they labored for our welfare. 

Lightening our burdens, and their hands, in love, 
Working unselfishly have richly earned them 
Their heritage, a happy home above ! 


A home above! but oh ! no trackless ocean 

Withholds them from us. Purest love, their 
guide, 

All space annihilates, and, as in earth-life 
They love to linger fondly by our side. 


Theirs is the victory. They have fought the battle, 
And crowned with peace, have entered into rest, 
While we are left, for years perhaps, to struggle, 
Ere we can join them in the mansions blest. 

Oh, may we feel the loved we call departed. 

A real presence with us, day by day ! 

So that our hearts may know no separation, 

For this alone can take our grief away. 


138 


THEN—NOW—AND THEN ! 


Where are the scenes that we gazed on with pleasure 
In the sweet spring-time of opening life? 

Where are the friends we learned fondly to treasure? 
Where the sweet joys with which earth appeared 
rife ? 


Fruits that were sweet have somehow lost their 
flavor, 

Which youth’s keen appetite relished so well, 
Sports and enjoyments, too, no longer savor 
The exhilaration that nothing could quell. 

Have things all changed, or are we strangely al¬ 
tered ? 

Think for a moment, The question is solved. 
Steps that preceded us often have faltered, 

Ere we in turn from youth-life were evolved. 

Strange that experience proves but to sadden ! 

Strange that, approaching the Beautiful Gate, 
Nearing the life, thoughts of which ought to glad¬ 
den, 

We are down-hearted instead of elate ! 

Help us, dear spirit friends ! in our endeavor 
To be more spiritual, noble and pure ! 

Clear our dim vision, and help us on ever 
Toward the bright light that shall ever endure ! 


139 


retrospective. 


How well do I remember, when I taught the dis¬ 
trict school, 

My very first experience in learning how to rule ! 

How I went with some ideas of the methods best to 
use, 

To make my younger subjects do about as I should 
choose ! 

I had little love for “young ones,’’ or at least, I so 
had thought, 

But I knew myself much better, ere I many 
weeks had taught, 

For I found that every scholar, plain or pretty, dull 
or smart, 

Had in some mysterious manner found an en¬ 
trance to my heart. 

How I watched their daily progress, though with 
some, it was so small, 

That my mind was sometimes doubtful, if they 
had progressed at all. 

Yet, their slow but sure advancement, would be 
manifest at length, 

And their parents’ satisfaction gave me courage, 
zeal and strength. 

Do you ask if I had favorites? I think all teachers 
must. 

I tried to deal impartially with all and to be just. 

But rea Uyi was human, and ’tis useless to protest 


140 


There were not some, who, in my heart, found more 
room than the rest. 


My little bright-eyed Lizzie, so affectionate and 
true! 

And Georgie with his hearty, boyish love,enchained 
me, too, 

And Inez, tender, clinging, would have won a heart 
of stone 

With the warmth of her affection, and the child 
seemed like my own. 


Oh, ’tis pleasant to remember how I loved these 
children three ! 

How they strove with one another, which should do 
the most for me ! 

But I’m sure that no one loved me with a love more 
strong and sweet, 

Than my blue-eyed boy, who met me at the corner 
of the street. 

He was noisy and impulsive, and a boy in every 
way, 

Yet to serve me he would readily forsake his fun 
and play. 

And, in spite of other boys’ insinuating, sneering 
talk, 

He would have his teacher’s right hand when I 
took my daily walk. 


141 


Well, those pleasant days have vanished. Time has 
left its mark on me, 

And my boy has grown to manhood. Children 
climb upon his knee. 

He is friendly when 1 meet him. I am welcome at 
his door, 

But I long sometimes to hold him in my arms, a boy 
once more. 


I can only have the memory. Change is one of 
Nature’s laws, 

And time, for love nor friendship, was never known 
to pause. 

So ’tis but in retrospection I can ever hope to greet 
My blue-eyed boy who met me at the corner of the 
street. 


ON THE TRANSITION OF WALLACE N. PORTER 
Entered into rest. 

Gone from this world with its strife and din. 
Gone from this earth with its vice and sin. 
Gone to mansions blest. 

Freed from torturing pain, 

Freed from all coughing, all labored breath, 
Entered at last, through the gateway of death, 
Life on a higher plane. 


142 



Gone from mortal sight. 

Laid in the earth the poor worn-out frame, 
While the sweet spirit, with love aflame, 
Gives us a message bright. 


Loved ones mourn me not ! 
Here I can work without aches or pains, 
For rest, but not idleness, here obtains. 
Opportunities sought 


Vainly, on earth below, 
Here in this fair spirit-life we find. 
Here the ambitious, inventive mind 
Freedom finds to grow. 


Mother kind and true ! 

Wife and children who seem bereft, 

My mortal form has your presence left, 

Yet I am oft with vou ! 

€/ 


In this higher sphere, 

For your good I will work and wait, 
Till you pass through the narrow gate 
Into the true life here. 


143 


INGERSOLL AT ONSET. QUERIES AND REFLEC¬ 
TIONS. 

Yes, Ingersoll, the orator, has really been among us, 

And' charmed a good-sized audience with his im¬ 
passioned flow 

Of eloquence sarcastic, and severe denunciation 

Of much that seemed so sacred in the days of 
long ago. 

This silver-tongued Demosthenes, rejects the thought 
of spirit, 

And argues from a strong materialistic point of 
view. 

But can it be his logic is but sublimated dough¬ 
nuts? 

Or his grand poetic periods are evolved from 
oyster stew? 

Are those brilliant scintillations of satire, wit 
and pathos 

But wondrous evolutions from mutton-chop and 
steak ? 

What chemical analysis can find for us pure rheto¬ 
ric 

Embodied in the mysteries of hash and johnny- 
cake ? 

We list to words of eloquence from this rare gifted 
mind. 

We hear the ribald sayings of some poor degraded 
sinner. 


144 


We wonder at the varied transformation, that re¬ 
sulted 

From these two men’s partaking of the self-same 
food at dinner. 

We appreciate true genius, never mind in what 
direction 

It manifests its presence, so it shows its mighty 
power. 

But if reason, in its argument, proves all our hopes 
fallacious, 

It leaves us drifting rudderless, in sorrow’s try¬ 
ing hour. 

We do not choose to argue, for we have a sweet de¬ 
lusion^) 

That gives us consolation in the deepest hours of 
grief. 

And we still desire to hold it until Spencerian 
science 

Can give us something better for our comfort and 
relief. 


Note. Sitting alone one evening, I was thinking of Col. Ingersoll 
and his work. I thought how strange it was, that one of his ability 
could believe that mind was simply the product of the food we eat. Sud¬ 
denly I felt impressed to write, and taking pencil and paper, I wrote 
without stopping to think, the above poem. 


145 



MY PRAYER. 


Mother ! life is dark and dreary 
Since you vanished from my sight. 

E’en though friends have tried to cheer me, 
Naught can make my earth-life bright. 
For I miss you, darling mother ! 

Miss your counsel, kind and true, 

Miss your smile, your voice so tender, 
Mother, take me home to you ! 


I have prayed for some sweet message, 
Token of your presence near. 

Little comes that can assure me 
That you still are with me here. 

So I’m weary with the waiting, 

For the proof, dear, sure and true. 
No one needs me here on earth, dear, 
Mother, take me home to vou ! 


I have been to the afflicted, 

Tried to cheer each saddened heart, 
Often when sad recollections 
Pierced my bosom like a dart. 

Yes, I’ve tried, dear, to be faithful 
To the work you’d have me do. 

But alas ! my courage faileth, 

Mother, take me home to you ! 


146 


CONSOLATION. 


One year ago, in Autumn drear, 

My heart felt Winter’s blight, 
When my dear mother’s mortal form 
Was hidden from my sight. 

Since then no comfort true I know, 
Life no real pleasure gives, 

Save in this one soul-cheering truth— 
I know mv mother lives ! 


I know , because she comes to me ! 

Friends voice her words of cheer, 
And some have given conclusive proof 
That she was standing near. 

Some see her face in spirit-life 
As I have seen in dreams, 

And wish that I might see it oft, 

So beautiful it seems. 


Oh mother ! dearest friend I have 
In earth or realms above, 

The sweetest blessing of my life 
Has been your pure true love, 
And, resting in that tender love 
Which you still freely give, 

The most uplifting truth to me 
Is knowing that you live ! 


147 


AFTER TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 


Thrice seven years have come and vanished, 
Into life’s eternal past, 

Thrice seven years of storm and sunshine, 
Summer breeze and winter blast, 

Since, just crossing manhood’s threshold, 

I this book’s first poem penned. 

Now grown older, wiser, sadder, 

With this poem the book I end. 

Thrice seven years ! Ah me ! What changes 
Doth a retrospect reveal! 

Oft has Death been in our household, 

Caused our aching hearts to feel 
That although the load was heav} 7 , 

That their weary frames had borne, 

Yet we fain would hold our loved ones, 

When they from our arms were torn. 

Thrice seven years of great improvements ! 

Science with gigantic stride 
Has pushed onward, until distance 
Now no longer can divide 
Friend from friend, for lo ! our wise men, 
Travelling with electric pace, 

And with minds made up to conquer, 

Have annihilated space. 

And to-day we stand in Whitman, 

Talking, while a simple wire, 

Stretched from pole to pole to Boston, 


148 


Charged with the electric fire, 

Takes our words, as soon as uttered, 
And, without a change of tone, 
Instantaneously transmits them 
To our friend, by telephone. 

Edison, the great inventor, 

Has brought out the phonograph. 
Catching human intonations, 

It can sing, and talk and laugh, 

And through him our town is brightened 
For, dispelling gloomy night, 
Throughout all our streets and avenues, 
Shines the clear electric light. 

Thrice seven years have brought another 
Blessing to our town, for lo ! 

Through our streets electric motors 
Carry hundreds to and fro. 

Water service, fire department, 

We are favored with to-day, 

And our town seems fairly started 
On a bright and prosperous way. 

Thrice seven years ! and Science tells me 
Three new bodies have been mine; 
But the last seems no improvement 
On the old ones left behind. 

Silver hairs have grown more plenty, 
Facial lines are deeper drawn. 

These, and many other changes, 

Tell me that my youth is gone. 


149 


But how fares it with the spirit? 

Forms of flesh must pass away. 

Be absorbed in Earth’s great workshop, 
But the spirit lives for aye. 

All the higher aspirations 
Have I striven to cultivate? 

Held the body in subjection 
To a mental potentate? 

Angels know. Through spirit guidance 
It has been my aim to be 
Every year more kind and loving, 

And trom baser passions free. 
Selfishness, the bane of progress, 

I have struggled to o’erthrow 
And to find my greatest pleasure 
Making others happier grow. 

And I feel this constant struggle 
Will develop greater strength, 

Till I conquer, thus becoming 
Master of myself, at length. 

This my wish, if I must stay here : 

Self-improvement day by day. 

But I long to cross the river 
To my loved ones, passed away. 

If I needs a while must linger, 

I shall strive with all my might 
Daily to uplift my spirit 

Nearer to the realms of light. 

Loving spirits, guide and help me ! 

And, when this earth-life is o’er, 

May I join your blessed ranks, and 
Work for good for evermore ! 


150 



















































